HIDDEN 
M  TRAILS 

WILLIAM  PATTER50N 

WHITE 


HIDDEN   TRAILS 


"     ...     The  puncher  seized  the  girl's  fingers  in  a  fer 
vent  grasp.      'I  shore  am  glad  to  see  yuh! '  he  exclaimed  " 


HIDDEN  TRAILS 


BY 
WILLIAM   PATTERSON  WHITE 


FRONTISPIECE 

BY 
RALPH    PALLEN    COLEMAN 


GARDEN    CITY  NEW    YORK 

DOUBLE  DAY,  PAGE  &  COMPANY 

1920 


COPYRIGHT,  1920,  BY 
DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  COMPANY 

ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED,  INCLUDING  THAT  OF  TRANSLATION 
INTO  FOREIGN  LANGUAGES,  INCLUDING  THE  SCANDINAVIAN 

COPYRIGHT,  IQlR,  BY  THE  RIDGWAY  COMPANY 


1 

CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I .  THE  HAPPY  HEART 3 

II.  JOHNNY'S  DECISION 14 

III.  PLANS 27 

IV.  THE  NORTHERN  TRAIL  ......  34 

V.  PARADISE  BEND 44 

VI.  THE  HEMPEN  SHADOW 56 

VII .  SCOTTY  MACKENZIE 66 

VIII .  DOROTHY  BURR 78 

IX.  THE  OTHER  WOMAN 88 

X.  THE  LIGHT  THAT  LIES 98 

XI.  VERY  STRAY  MEN no 

XII.  LAGUERRE  TALKS 127 

XIII.  RIDERS  AT  ROCKET 139 

XIV.  BECAUSE 150 

XV.  TARGET  PRACTISE 156 

XVI.  THE  AGENCY 168 

XVII.  THE  INEXPLICABLE  RED-HEAD       .      .      .  180 

XVIII.  Two  AND  Two 191 


M532948 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XIX.  BUSHWHACKERS 210 

XX.  GOVERNMENT  MONEY 232 

XXI.  TELEGRAMS 258 

XXII.  WHAT  DOROTHY  SAID 275 

XXIII.  A  BURRO  BRAYS 288 

XXIV.  A  FAIR  AND  SUMMER  MORNING    .     .     .  295 
XXV.  GREEN  AND  GOLD 310 

XXVI.  THE  CLAWS  OF  THE  LEOPARD      .      .      .  318 

XXVII.  THE  END  THEREOF 327 


HIDDEN   TRAILS 


HIDDEN  TRAILS 


CHAPTER  I 
THE  HAPPY  HEART 

THERE  was  more  than  a  fair  sprinkling  of  customers- 
in  the  Happy  Heart  Saloon.  Tom  Dowling  of  the 
88,  Racey  Dawson  of  the  Cross-in-a-box,  and  Tele 
scope  Laguerre  of  the  Bar  S  were  draped  against  the  bar 
earnestly  engaged  in  lowering  the  tide  in  a  bottle  of  Old 
Crow.  Four  of  the  Hogpen  outfit  and  a  skinny  gentleman 
hailing  from  the  Double  Diamond  A  were  absorbed  in  draw 
at  the  table  in  the  far  corner.  At  the  other  table,  near  the 
door,  sat  Johnny  Ramsay  of  the  Cross-in-a-box.  He  was 
a  tall,  lean  young  man,  with  a  cool,  sardonic  gray  eye  and 
a  sunburned  face. 

Taking  infinite  pains,  he  built  himself  a  cigarette.  But 
instead  of  lighting  the  slim,  white  roll,  he  crushed 
it  between  his  brown  fingers,  blew  away  the  clinging 
grains  of  tobacco,  and  clasped  his  hands  behind  his 
head.  He  glanced  at  his  three  friends  braced  at  the  bar 
and  yawned.  He  gazed  at  the  card  players,  and  his  yawn 
became  wider.  He  tilted  back  in  his  chair  and  stared  at 
the  ceiling. 

Then,  because  he  was  bored,  he  brought  the  front  legs 
of  the  chair  to  the  floor  with  a  crash,  fished  out  a  tremen- 


4  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

dous  clasp-knife  and  began  to  whittle  the  table-top.     In  a 
plaintive  monotone  he  began  to  sing: 

"I  ain't  got  no  sweetheart, 
I  ain't  got  no  sweetheart, 
I  ain't  got  no  sweetheart, 
To  sit  an'  talk  with  me." 

"I  shore  wish  to  Gawd  yuh  had  a  sweetheart!"  a  peev 
ish  voice  announced  at  the  tail  of  the  first  verse.  "Then 
maybe  yuh'd  stop  choppin'  my  table  to  pieces!" 

Johnny  lifted  cool  gray  eyes  to  the  hot  and  angry  face 
of  the  Happy  Heart's  proprietor. 

"She's  a  right  nice  table,"  he  observed  pleasantly,  and 
made  the  chips  fly. 

"Say "  began  the  outraged  proprietor. 

"Now  look  here,"  urged  Johnny,  "I  ain't  got  a  thing  to 
do,  not  one  1'il  thing,  an*  I  ain't  got  no  sweetheart  like  I 
say,  an*  I  gotta  do  somethin',  ain't  I,  'cause  if  I  don't  I'm 
likely  to  do  most  anythin'.  So  there  y'are." 

The  facile  explanation  was  not  illuminating.  Nor  did 
it  satisfy  the  proprietor.  But  Johnny  Ramsay  was  known 
as  an  impulsive  young  man  of  uncertain  temper.  The  pro 
prietor  had  no  wish  to  antagonize  the  young  man.  He  re 
sorted  to  diplomacy. 

"If  it's  all  the  same  to  you,  Johnny,"  he  said,  in  a  wheed 
ling  tone,  "I'd  just  as  soon  yuh'd  cut  somethin'  else,  a  tree 
maybe,  or  the  wife's  kindlin'  or  anythin'  like  that.  But 
yuh  know  how  it  is  yoreself,  folks  like  to  play  cards  on  that 
table,  an'  whittlin'  her  up'll  sort  o'  spile  her." 

"Puttin'  her  thataway  makes  it  a  cat  with  another  tail 
entirely,"  Johnny  declared  handsomely,  and  closed  his 
knife. 

Satisfied,  the  proprietor  departed.     The  customers  who 


THE  HAPPY  HEART  5 

had  watched  the  little  scene  grinned  at  each  other  and  re 
turned  to  their  liquor.  Johnny  attacked  the  construction 
of  another  cigarette. 

At  this  juncture  a  stranger  entered  the  saloon  and 
crossed  to  the  bar.  He  was  a  man  of  middle  height,  this 
stranger,  with  a  curling  brown  beard  and  a  quick,  bright 
eye.  Johnny  idly  watched  him  as  he  stood  with  one  foot 
on  the  rail  and  drank  his  whiskey.  The  Cross-in-a-box 
puncher  noted  that  the  brown-bearded  man,  while  careless 
in  attitude  and  demeanour,  was,  over  the  rim  of  his  glass, 
subjecting  each  occupant  of  the  room  to  a  close  and  heedful 
scrutiny. 

"Must  be  a  deputy  or  somethin',"  thought  Johnny, 
and  turned  his  eyes  toward  the  back  of  the  room,  for  he 
perceived  that  his  turn  was  coming  next. 

Johnny's  roving  glance  fell  on  one  of  the  rear  windows. 
This  window  was  open  and  through  it  a  man  was  staring, 
with  a  peculiar  malevolence,  at  the  brown-bearded  stranger. 
But  on  the  instant  the  man  wheeled  and  disappeared. 

"Now  that's  shore  a  odd  number,"  commented  Johnny, 
referring  to  the  malevolent  one,  not  his  disappearance. 
<fAn*  I  dunno  know  him,  either.  Whoever  he  is,  the 
jigger  with  the  brown  whiskers  ain't  popular  with  him  a 
li'l  bit." 

Johnny,  reflecting  on  the  strangeness  of  life,  tilted  his 
chair  back  against  the  wall.  He  hooked  his  heels  in  a 
rung  and  his  thumbs  in  his  belt  and  appeared  to  drowse. 
But  he  was  not  drowsing.  Far  from  it.  Through  the  slits 
of  his  narrowed  eyelids  he  was  alternately  watching  the 
brown-bearded  stranger  and  the  front  door.  For,  in  the 
longhorn  country,  when  one  gentleman  bestows  baleful 
glares  upon  another,  it  behooves  the  innocent  bystander  to 
be  vigilant. 


6  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

Johnny  was  not  greatly  surprised  when  the  vindictive- 
looking  window-gazer  walked  in  from  the  street  and  went 
immediately  to  the  bar. 

He  was  not  a  prepossessing  person,  this  second  stranger. 
In  the  first  place  his  long  frame  was  rawboned  to  a  degree, 
and  he  shambled  rather  than  walked.  His  hands,  large 
and  splay-fingered,  bristled  to  the  nails  with  stifF  red  hair. 
His  face  was  hairless,  freckled,  hollow-cheeked  and  long- 
jawed.  His  nose  was  hooked  like  an  eagle's  beak,  and  his 
eyes  were  of  a  blank,  curious  yellow. 

The  man,  as  he  stood  in  front  of  the  bar,  pushed  back 
his  hat,  a  wide,  white  Stetson  with  an  extra  high  crown. 
Johnny  saw  that  the  man's  forehead  was  reptilian  and  his 
hair  the  hue  of  flame. 

The  brown-bearded  stranger,  beyond  a  keen  glance, 
paid  the  newcomer  no  attention.  The  red-head  appeared 
not  to  be  conscious  of  the  other's  presence.  Johnny 
slumped  farther  down  in  his  chair  and  became  even  more 
watchful. 

The  flame-haired  stranger,  limiting  himself  to  one  finger 
at  a  throw,  had  two  drinks.  Then  he  slouched  across  the 
floor  to  where  the  card  players  were  busy.  He  watched 
them  for  a  space. 

"Gents,"  he  said  suddenly  in  a  singularly  pleasant  voice, 
"gents,  is  this  here  a  private  game  or  can  anybody  get  in? 
Yuh  see,  I  got  some  dinero  I'd  shore  admire  to  get  action 
on." 

"Shore  yuh  can,"  agreed  the  skinny  gentleman  from  the 
Double  Diamond  A,  who  was  losing.  "Sit  in,  an'  wel 
come.  Maybe  yuh'll  change  my  luck." 

"Yuh  can  just  kiss  yore  coin  good-bye,"  laughed  one  of 
the  Hogpen  boys.  "Yuh'll  shore  lose  it.  Luck's  with  me 
to-day." 


THE  HAPPY  HEART  7 

"That  so?"  said  the  red-head,  smiling  in  such  a  way  that 
the  long  canines  showed  on  the  left  side  of  his  mouth. 
"Then  let's  all  have  a  drink  on  the  strength  of  it.  Name 
yore  pizen,  gents." 

Bottle  and  glasses  were  brought  to  the  table  by  the  bar 
tender.  Johnny  observed  that  the  stranger  did  not  over 
step  his  limit  of  one  finger.  P'urthermore,  the  man  drank 
but  the  merest  swallow  of  the  one  finger. 

Play  was  resumed.  The  brown-bearded  man  still  stood 
at  the  bar.  He  had  had  three  drinks,  perhaps  four.  On 
this  point  the  observant  Johnny  was  not  positive. 

Of  the  men  at  the  bar,  Dowling  began  to  draw  under  the 
influence.  Five  minutes  later  he  wandered  out,  a  per 
ceptible  stagger  in  his  walk.  Racey  Dawson  and  Telescope 
Laguerre  continued  to  talk  and  drink.  Dawson  was  not 
one  to  become  plastered  very  easily,  and  as  to  Laguerre, 
his  ability  to  carry  liquor  was  marvelous. 

Johnny  watched  the  card  players.  When  it  came  the 
red-haired  stranger's  turn  to  deal  Johnny  was  fairly  cer 
tain  that  the  man  dealt  himself  two  cards  from  the  bottom 
of  the  pack.  But  "fairly  certain"  is  not  conviction,  and 
it  was  none  of  his  business  anyway.  So  reasoned  Johnny. 
Alert  as  the  proverbial  weasel,  he  ceased  not  to  observe. 

"He's  keepin'  after  Windy,"  said  Johnny  to  himself,  as 
the  play  proceeded. 

Windy  was  the  skinny  gentleman  from  the  Double 
Diamond  A,  and  his  financial  state  was  becoming  tottery. 
Whatever  he  lost  was  added  to  the  growing  columns  of 
chips  in  front  of  the  red-head.  To  these  columns  the  Hog 
pen  boys  likewise  contributed  to  some  extent. 

"He's  shore  a  ring-tailed  wonder,"  admitted  Johnny, 
after  the  deal  had  gone  round  three  times,  and  the  stranger 
had  held  wonderful  hands  three  times.  "This  is  gettin* 


8  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

interestin'.  That  last  time  he  dealt  himself  three  cards 
from  the  bottom.  He's  gettin'  reckless,  that  jigger.  He 
don't  care  nothin'  a-tall  what  he  does.  An*  yet  I  couldn't 
swear  he  done  nothin'  out  o'  the  way.  His  fingers  is  so 
-  quick." 

Windy,  broke,  was  endeavouring  to  put  up  his  six- 
shooter  as  security. 

"No,"  demurred  the  red-head.  "I  got  a  gun.  Don't 
want  another.  Pony  an'  saddle?  Not  me,  stranger.  I 
got  them  too." 

Windy  rose  and  went  to  the  bar  and  endeavoured  to 
pawn  his  gun  with  the  bartender.  But  the  proprietor,  en 
tering  at  the  moment,  that  business  arrangement  was 
nipped  in  the  bud. 

"No  guns  goes,  Windy,"  the  proprietor  stated  firmly. 
"  I  couldn't  give  yuh  a  simoleon  for  a  bushel  o'  Colts.  I 
got  nineteen  in  a  box  behind  the  bar  now.  Some  of  'em's 
been  there  six  months  an'  no  action  yet.  I  can't  sell  'em 
'cause  if  I  do  the  owner's  bound  to  turn  up  with  the  price 
an'  want  his  gun  back.  Five  dollars  apiece  I  gave  on  'em 
— ninety-five  wheels,  I'm  tellin'  yuh.  An'  I  might  just 
as  well  'a'  slung  the  coin  in  the  stove  for  all  the  good  she 
does  me.  No,  Windy,  I'm  sorry,  'cause  yo're  a  real  gent 
an'  a  reg'lar  customer,  but  yuh  gotta  take  yore  gun  an'  go 
some'ers  else  with  her.  No,  sirree — ponies  an'  saddles 
don't  go  neither.  I  got  four  saddles  an'  five  ponies  in  the 
corral,  an'  Gawd  knows  when  the  boys'll  come  for  'em. 
So  there  y'are." 

Windy  departed  after  vain  efforts  to  raise  even  such  a 
minor  sum  as  four  bits  among  the  other  occupants  of  the 
room. 

Johnny  perceived  that  the  red-head,  whose  deal  it  was, 
had  done  nothing  but  shuffle  and  re-shuffle  the  cards  and 


THE  HAPPY  HEART  9 

watch  Windy  while  the  latter  was  endeavouring  to  effect  a 
loan.  Once  he  had  licked  his  lips,  and  the  yellow  eyes  had 
flickered  for  an  instant  to  the  brown-bearded  citizen  stand 
ing  at  the  bar.  For  all  that  the  red-head  was  leaning  his 
stomach  against  the  table  and  had  slouched  down  his 
shoulders  in  a  decided  slump,  there  was  to  Johnny's  mind 
more  than  a  hint  of  tenseness  in  the  man's  aspect.  Some 
how  he  reminded  Johnny  of  a  dynamite  cartridge  after  the 
fuse  has  been  lit.  There  was  about  both  the  same  sug 
gestion  of  violent  possibilities. 

At  Windy's  departure  the  red-head  straightened  in  his 
chair.  But  he  did  not  begin  dealing.  He  laid  the  cards 
on  the  table. 

"Say,  mister,"  he  called  to  the  brown-bearded  man, 
"how  about  takin'  our  friend's  place?  Just  for  a  hand  or 
two  till  he  gets  back?" 

The  thin  lips  had  widened  into  a  smile,  a  smile  that  dis 
played  the  long  canines  on  the  left  side  of  his  mouth.  But 
the  yellow  eyes  were  not  smiling.  Blank  and  cold  and 
fixed,  they  stared  at  the  brown-bearded  man. 

The  latter  turned  an  indifferent  head  and  regarded  the 
speaker. 

"I  dunno,"  he  said.     "I  don't  feel  like  poker." 

"Just  to  oblige  us,"  the  red-head  wheedled  in  his  melo 
dious  voice. 

Brownbeard  shook  his  head. 

"No,  I  guess  not." 

"Well,  o'  course,"  said  the  red-head  in  a  tone  pregnant 
with  insult,  "if  yuh'd  rather  not — or  somethin'." 

Brownbeard  retorted  by  striding  to  the  table,  pulling 
out  Windy's  chair  and  sitting  down. 

"I'll  go  you,"  he  said  shortly,  his  eyes,  narrowed,  gazing 
fixedly  at  the  red-head. 


io  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

"Now,  that's  the  talk!"  cried  the  red-head  cheerily, 
while  the  three  Hogpen  boys  looked  from  one  to  the  other 
in  wonderment. 

It  seemed  to  them  that  their  little  playmate  had  wilfully 
endeavoured  to  antagonize  Brownbeard.  Why?  But  the 
cards  had  been  dealt  and  they  picked  up  their  hands  with 
the  question  unanswered. 

Johnny  shifted  slightly  in  his  chair.  What  had  been 
apparent  to  the  Hogpen  punchers  had  not  escaped  his 
attention.  More  and  more  as  time  progressed  he  disliked 
the  red-head. 

The  deal  circled  the  table,  and  Windy  had  not  yet  re 
turned.  The  red-head  did  not  once  look  toward  the  door 
way,  but  it  was  manifest  that  he  was  accelerating  the  play. 
He  made  his  bets  quickly  and  handled  his  cards  with  sus 
picious  haste. 

It  came  Brownbeard's  turn  to  deal.  He  gathered  up  the 
cards,  shuffled  them  methodically  and  began  to  deal.  At 
the  instant  that  he  flipped  a  card  to  the  red-head  the 
latter's  long  left  arm  lashed  out  with  the  speed  of  a  striking 
snake,  his  fingers  struck  the  cards  in  the  dealer's  hand  and 
sent  them  flying. 

Johnny  did  not  see  the  red-head  go  after  his  gun.  But 
there  was  a  flash  and  a  crash  and  a  burst  of  gray  smoke, 
and  Brownbeard  huddled  down  in  his  chair,  then  flopped 
forward  across  the  table,  his  face  among  the  scattered 
cards. 

The  red-head  was  on  his  feet,  his  gun,  thin  smoke  spiral- 
ing  from  the  muzzle,  still  in  his  hand.  There  was  a  great 
and  righteous  indignation  in  the  red-head's  face  and  in 
his  voice  when  he  exclaimed: 

"He  tried  to  skin  us,  the tinhorn!  Didja  see  him 

deal  from  the  bottom  of  the  deck?" 


THE  HAPPY  HEART  11 

"No,  I  didn't,"  said  one  of  the  Hogpen  boys,  sliding  out 
of  his  chair  with  a  very  pale  face. 

"I  didn't  see  nothin'  like  that  either,"  declared  Johnny, 
who  had  come  out  of  his  seeming  lethargy  on  the 
jump. 

"Well,  7  seen  him,"  averred  with  finality  the  red-head. 

"The tin-horn!  I  didn't  think  he  looked  like  that  or 

I'd  never  V  asked  him  over." 

"Wouldn't  yuh?"  queried  Johnny  with  a  level  glance  of 
frank  aversion. 

The  red-head  continued  to  ignore  him,  and  with  a  nice 
perception  tilted  and  pulled  away  the  table  as  Laguerre 
and  a  Hogpen  boy  raised  the  body  of  Brownbeard.  They 
laid  the  body  on  the  top  of  the  bar  near  the  door.  There 
was  no  need  to  listen  for  heartbeats.  The  red-head's 
bullet  had  bored  the  skull  from  front  to  rear.  It 
was  Johnny  who  placed  Brownbeard's  hat  over  the 
dead  face,  and  it  was  the  proprietor  who  removed  the 
spurs  to  the  end  that  the  bar  might  not  be  unduly 
scratched. 

Johnny  and  the  others  stood  together  in  the  vicinity  of 
the  corpse  and  eyed  the  red-head.  Which  person  had  re 
sumed  his  seat  at  the  table  and  was  cutting  the  cards,  right 
hand  against  left.  He  looked  up  and  grinned  as  he  caught 
their  glances. 

"Some  sudden,"  he  said  quietly,  "but  she  had  to  be 
done.  I  can't  let  nobody  work  a  game  like  that  on  me. 
No  sir,  not  while  I  got  my  health — an'  a  gun.  She  was 
the  only  trail  out,  gents,  an'  that's  whatever." 

Still  they  surveyed  him  in  silence.  Johnny  yearned  to 
give  voice  to  his  suspicion.  But  there  it  was — suspicion. 
He  was  not  sure  of  his  ground.  The  others,  although  they 
had  seen  nothing  to  hang  suspicion  upon,  were  instinctively 


12  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

aware  that  all  was  not  right.  The  killing,  fair  enough  on 
its  face,  yet  bore  an  earmark  or  two  of  evil.  The  red-head 
had  been  too  abrupt,  for  one  thing,  and  for  another,  he  had 
urged  Brownbeard,  who  patently  had  not  desired  to  play, 
to  sit  in  the  game. 

Entered  then  Slim  Berdan,  the  town  marshal,  and  a  few 
curious  citizens. 

"What  was  the  trouble?"  asked  Slim  Berdan,  a  slight, 
wiry  man  with  a  black  mustache  and  goatee. 

One  of  the  Hogpen  boys  told  him  what  he  knew  of  the 
case.  The  marshal  listened  in  silence.  The  red-head 
displayed  no  interest  in  what  the  puncher  had  to  say.  He 
was  playing  solitaire  now,  and  his  face  was  serious. 

When  the  Hogpen  boy  had  finished,  the  marshal  walked 
straight  across  the  floor  to  the  table  where  the  red-head 
sat.  The  latter  raised  his  yellow  eyes  to  Berdan's  ex 
pressionless  face.  The  marshal's  hands  were  at  his  sides. 
They  were  not  threateningly  close  to  his  guns.  They  were 
merely  conveniently  by. 

"Stranger,"  said  the  marshal,  "we  don't  know  nothin' 
about  yuh,  an'  we  ain't  aimin'  to  know  nothin'  about  yuh. 
I  ain't  sayin'  a  word  about  the  merits  o'  this  case.  Maybe 
you  know  'em  better'n  I  do.  But  I'm  tellin'  yuh  this: 
yuh  got  twenty  minutes  to  pull  yore  freight  out  o'  Fare 
well.  At  the  end  o'  that  time  if  yo're  still  in  town  we'll 
sort  o'  make  out  to  hang  yuh  some." 

"But  I  like  Farewell,"  protested  the  red-head  injuredly. 
"I  was  figurin'  on  stayin'  awhile." 

"You'll  shore  stay  quite  a  while  if  yo're  here  after  the 
twenty  minutes  are  up,"  said  the  marshal,  and,  as  if  the 
matter  had  been  settled,  he  turned  his  back  and  walked 
away. 

"I  can  see  he  means  it,"  mourned  the  red-head,  rising 


THE  HAPPY  HEART  13 

to  his  feet  and  grinning  impudently  at  the  line  of  unfriendly 
faces  across  the  room.  "An'  just  when  I  thought  I'd 
found  my  happy  home." 

He  departed,  scuffing  his  toes.     Ten  minutes  later  thfey 
saw  him  ride  past  the  saloon  on  his  way  out  of  town. 


CHAPTER  II 
JOHNNY'S  DECISION 

IF  I  wanted  to  kill  a  man,"  declared  Johnny  slowly, 
"I  dunno  but  what  as  good  a  way  as  any  would  be  to 
call  him  a  skin  an'  plug  him  quick." 

The  others  nodded.  Johnny  was  voicing  their  own 
thoughts. 

"  Dees  feller  she  deed  not  even  reach  for  her  gun,"  said 
Laguerre,  jerking  his  head  toward  the  poor  clay  on  the  top 
of  the  bar.  "Un  dem  card*  was  scattair  so,  we  cannot 
tell  w'eddair  she  was  deal  de  skeen  game  or  not.  By  gar, 
Johnny  ees  right." 

"On  the  other  hand,"  put  in  Slim  Berdan,  "this  red- 
haired  gent  does  just  exactly  what  he'd  ought  to  done  pro 
vided  the  other  feller  was  cheatin'.  In  a  case  like  this  here 
yuh  can't  prove  nothin'.  Yuh  can  think  a  whole  lot,  an* 
yuh  can  tell  the  jigger  who  keeps  alive  at  the  finish  to 
flit,  but  that's  all  yuh  can  do." 

The  shooting  had  a  depressing  effect.  Men  ceased  to 
play  cards  and  drank  more  than  was  good  for  the  lining  of 
their  stomachs.  Johnny  sat  in  his  tip-tilted  chair,  his  hat 
pulled  low  down  over  his  eyes.  His  thoughts  were  gloomy. 
It  was  not  the  first  time  he  had  seen  death.  But  it  was 
the  first  time  he  had  seen  a  man  killed  without  being  given 
a  chance  to  defend  himself. 

Mike  Flynn,  the  one-legged  owner  of  the  Blue  Pigeon 
Store,  added  to  the  general  melancholy  by  stumping  in 

H 


JOHNNY'S  DECISION  15 

with  a  sheet  and  laying  out  the  ground-plan  of  a  shroud 
on  the  body  of  the  dead. 

"I'll  not  see  him  go  naked  to  his  grave,  the  poor  feller," 
asserted  Mike  Flynn,  squinting  along  the  doubled  length 
of  sheet.  "He's  got  clo'es,  I  know  that,  but  a  funeral 
ain't  a  funeral  without  a  shroud.  I've  seen  many  a  lad 
when  I  was  at  sea  slipped  overside,  and  they  all  had 
shrouds.  I  misdoubt  it  ain't  legal  without.  Ay,  an'  a 
lump  or  two  o'  best  Welsh  to  sink  'em  down.  Glory  be, 
the  funerals  I've  seen.  God  be  with  the  ould  days." 

Mike  Flynn  produced  a  short  and  blackened  clay  and 
rammed  home  the  tobacco  with  a  stubby  forefinger.  When 
his  pipe  was  drawing  well  he  sat  down  tailor-fashion  on  one 
of  the  card-tables  and  turned  to  with  needle  and  thread 
at  fashioning  the  necessary  shroud. 

Johnny  watched  Mike's  flying  fingers  in  fascinated  si 
lence  and  wished  the  storekeeper  would  stop  humming  that 
song.  It  was  a  doleful  ditty  having  to  do  with  a  man  that 
went  to  sea  and  was  drowned.  Johnny  would  have  gone 
out  into  the  sunshine  in  search  of  relaxation  but  he  was 
afraid  that  if  he  did  he  would  miss  something.  And  that 
would  never  do. 

"Now,  here's  a  fine  job,"  announced  Mike  Flynn  sud 
denly,  standing  up  on  the  table  and  shading  out  the  com 
pleted  shroud  as  the  housewife  shakes  out  a  table-cloth. 
"He'll  slip  into  this  just  as  nice  as  a  girl's  leg  into  a  silk 
stockin'." 

Mike  dismounted  from  his  table.  Johnny  pulled  him 
self  to  his  feet  and  went  to  assist  Mike  and  the  others. 
But  before  the  shroud  was  adjusted  an  elderly,  gray- 
mustached  citizen  pushed  his  way  through  the  crowding 
onlookers.  This  man  was  Jake  Rule,  the  sheriff  of  Fort 
Creek  County.  Slim  Berdan  followed  in  his  wake. 


16  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

"Wait  a  shake  before  yuh  cover  his  face  up,"  said  the 
sheriff. 

The  officer  glanced  at  the  dead  and  nodded. 

"Is  it?"  inquired  Slim  Berdan. 

"Yep,  it's  Mat  Neville,"  answered  the  sheriff.  "I  kind 
o'  suspicioned  it  might  be,  when  yuh  said  he  had  a  curly 
brown  beard.  !  Mat  never  cheated  in  his  life!" 

"I  knowed  it!"  burst  out  Johnny. 

"I'd  shore  admire  to  'a'  been  here  when  it  happened, 
instead  o'  some'ers  else,"  deplored  the  sheriff.  "I'd  en 
joyed  lookin'  over  the  killer." 

Johnny  and  a  half  a  dozen  others  made  eager  haste  to 
describe  him,  but  the  sheriff  shook  his  head 

"Slim's  told  me  what  he  looked  like,"  he  said,  "an'  I 
dunno  him  a-tall.  Dunno  as  I  ever  even  heard  of  him 
before.  But  I  shore  would  like  to  'a'  seen  him  just  out  o' 
curiosity." 

"Mat  Neville,"  repeated  Racey  Dawson.  "Seems  like 
I  heard  there  was  a  Wells-Fargo  detective  down  at  Sey 
mour  City  named  Mat  Neville." 

The  sheriff  glanced  casually  at  Racey. 

"This  is  him,"  he  said  shortly. 

Creak  and  jangle!  Hoof  beat  and  bump!  The  through 
stage  from  Paradise  Bend  to  Marysville  and  the  railroad 
was  pulling  into  Farewell.  It  stopped  in  front  of  the  post- 
office  with  a  wild  screeching  of  brake-shoes. 

"By  Gawd  if  the  guard  ain't  downed!"  exclaimed 
Johnny,  looking  through  the  window.  "An'  Whiskey 
Jim's  creased  on  the  head." 

Here  was  a  matter  requiring  instant  investigation.  The 
Happy  Heart  was  forthwith  deserted  by  all  save  the  bar 
tender  and  the  corpse. 

Whiskey  Jim,  a  bloody  bandage  under  his  slanted  hat, 


JOHNNY'S  DECISION  17 

hooked  a  heel  on  the  brake-lever  and  swelled  out  his  chest. 
He  had  a  tale  to  tell  and  he  realized  the  importance  of  his 
position. 

"Road  agents — again,"  he  replied  to  the  shouted  ques 
tions.  "I'm  slowin'  up  for  that  bend  below  the  cutbank 
near  the  Hogback,  when  bang  !  goes  a  Winchester  on  the 
bank.  An'  the  lead  nicks  me  an'  goes  right  on  without 
stoppin'  an'  busts  Jack  plumb  centre.  Don't  even  have 
time  to  raise  his  shotgun,  Jack  don't.  Which  that  weapon 
slides  clatterin'  down  on  the  doubletree  an'  Jack  slides 
after  on  his  head.  That's  all,  gents,  just  the  one  shot,  but 
it's  enough.  There's  a  beller  o'  'Hands  up!'  but  I  don't 
need  it.  I've  done  stopped  the  team,  set  the  brake,  an' 
reached  for  the  sky  already. 

"I've  only  got  one  good  eye — the  blood's  runnin'  down 
into  the  other,  but  I  sees  a-plenty.  There's  six  o'  the 
hold-ups  this  trip,  an'  they  work  fast.  They  line  my  pas 
sengers  up  alongside  the  stage  an'  go  through  'em.  One 
of  'em  dumb  up  over  the  wheel  an'  hauled  off  the  Wells- 
Fargo  box  an'  dumped  her.  Then  they  chased  the  passen 
gers  back  inside  an'  told  me  to  go  on.  No,  they  didn't 
touch  the  mailbags.  Seems  like  they  knowed  our  Uncle 
Sammy'd  get  a  heap  riled  up  if  they  done  that. 

"I  will  say  this  for  'em:  they  didn't  rob  me,  an*  they 
loaded  Jack  back  on  up  top  an'  tied  him  fast  with  a  lariat, 
an'  they  made  one  o'  the  passengers  tie  up  my  head  so's  I 
could  see  to  drive.  For  road  agents,  they  was  right  human 
— considerin.'" 

"The  Hogback's  only  fifteen  mile  south  o'  Rocket,"  re 
marked  the  sheriff.  "Why  didn't  yuh  drive  back  there 
an'  scare  up  a  posse?" 

"Say,  don't  yuh  s'pose  I'd  'a'  done  that  if  I  could?" 
Whiskey  Jim  protested.  "Them  fellers  said  if  I  didn't  keep 


i8  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

a-goin'  straight  on  they'd  plug  me  for  keeps,  an'  I  believed 
'em.  But  I  told  the  agent  at  Cutter  when  I  pulled  in  there 
last  night,  an'  he  sent  one  o'  the  hostlers  to  the  Bend  after 
the  sheriff.  I'd  'a'  left  Jack  at  Cutter  only  for  his  sayin' 
so  often  how  he  wanted  to  be  buried  in  a  reg'lar  shore- 
'nough  graveyard  an'  a  hell-dodger  to  speak  his  li'l  piece 
an'  all.  So  he's  goin'  to  Marysville  an'  have  his  graveyard. 
He  was  a  good  feller,  Jack.  I  never  did  know  his  last  name 
— huh  ?  Now,  Sheriff,  how  I  could  tell  what  they  looked 
like  when  they  all  had  masks  on.  They  was  dressed  like 
punchers  an'  they  had  a  six-shooter  an'  rifle  apiece  just  like 
any  other  respectable  gent." 

"Is  this  here  the  ninth  or  tenth  time  yuh  been  stopped, 
Jim?"  asked  the  sheriff. 

"Tenth.  Hell's  bells,  it  shore  is  gettin*  monotonous. 
Come  along  with  that  mailbag,  Rime.  Djuh  think  I  got 
time  to  wait  all  day?" 

When  the  stage  had  creaked  away,  the  sheriff  spat  re 
flectively  into  the  dust  of  its  passing  and  turned  back  with 
the  crowd  to  the  Happy  Heart  to  finish  the  funeral. 

They  buried  Mat  Neville,  not  very  deep,  because  the 
ground  was  hard,  but  they  made  amends  by  piling  rocks 
and  small  boulders  into  a  cairn.  They  sang  "The  Dying 
Ranger"  with  their  hats  off,  and  a  kindly  soul  fashioned  a 
cross  from  a  cracker  box  and  wrote  Mat's  name  and  address 
on  the  arms,  employing  for  the  purpose  a  rifle  cartridge. 

After  which  they  returned  to  the  Happy  Heart,  for  they 
needed  cheering  up. 

An  hour  later  Johnny  Ramsay,  Racey  Dawson,  and  Tele 
scope  Laguerre  were  going  into  Bill  Lainey's  hotel  in  quest 
of  supper  when  a  dog-fight-  started  in  the  street  and  they 
stopped  to  watch  it.  Just  as-one  dog  drove  the  other  howl 
ing,  a  rider  jingled  up  and  halted  in  front  of  the  doorway. 


JOHNNY'S  DECISION  19 

The  man  was  Bill  Stahl,  sheriff  of  Sunset  County.  Bill 
Stahl  spoke  to  the  two  punchers,  and  dismounted.  He 
crossed  the  sidewalk  and  awakened  Bill  Lainey,  who,  fol 
lowing  his  habit,  was  dozing  in  a  wire-bound  chair  tilted 
against  the  wall  of  the  building.  Bill  Lainey,  with  a 
wheeze,  heaved  his  fat  bulk  upright. 

"Seen  anythin'  o'  Mat  Neville?"  asked  the  sheriff. 

"'Mat  Neville',"  repeated  Bill  Lainey,  blinking  his  eyes 
rapidly,  "Mat  Neville?  Why,  why,  he's  dead." 

Bill  Stahl  swore  frankly,  and  demanded  details.  Johnny 
and  his  two  friends,  wondering  what  the  official  reason  for 
wanting  Mat  might  be,  went  on  into  the  hotel. 

While  they  were  eating,  Sheriff  Rule,  accompanied  by 
Sheriff  Stahl,  entered  the  dining  room.  The  Sunset  officer 
carried  a  doubletree  bolt,  a  carton  of  tacks,  and  several 
notices. 

"Nail  her  on  the  wall,"  wheezed  Bill  Lainey,  poking  his 
head  turtle-wise  through  the  doorway.  "Then  gents  can 
have  somethin'  to  read  with  their  meals." 

Bill  Stahl  solemnly  tacked  up  one  of  the  notices  with  four 
taps  of  the  doubletree  bolt.  Then  he  shifted  his  chew  and 
expertly  drowned  a  fly  on  the  extreme  outside  edge  of  the 
window-sill. 

"Gents,"  he  said  to  the  diners,  indicating  the  notice 
with  a  backward  jerk  of  his  thumb,  "gents,  here's  a  chance 
to  make  money.  But  this  reward  yuh  see  here  ain't  all. 
Wells-Fargo  offers  the  same.  Their  notices  ain't  arrove 
yet.  When  they  do  they'll  be  posted  correct  an'  proper." 

The  two  sheriffs  departed,  and  Lainey's  guests  stopped 
shoveling  long  enough  to  read  the  notice  twice  over.  It 
was  an  interesting  bit  of  printing  in  that  it  set  forth  that, 
to  the  man  or  men  who  would  deliver  dead  or  alive,  into 
custody,  the  several  persons  of  the  banditti  who  were 


20  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

operating  in  Sunset  County,  the  territory  would  pay  at 
the  rate  of  one  thousand  dollars  per  bandit.  As  the  man 
or  men  who  attempted  such  a  delivery  stood  an  excellent 
chance  of  being  shot,  the  one  thousand  per  was  not  ex 
cessive. 

"Huh,"  snorted  Windy  of  the  Double  Diamond  A. 
"This  is  shore  one  on  oT  Sunset  County.  Whatsa  matter 
with  them  tarrapins  up  there?  It  oughtn't  to  be  no  job 
a-tall  to  curry  a  li'l  short  hoss  like  that." 

"  Yuh  think  so,"  contributed  one  of  the  Hogpen  outfit. 
"Lemme  tell  yuh,  Windy,  as  a  friend,  that  when  it  comes 
to  bein'  slick,  a  band  o'  road  agents  like  this  one  o'  Sun 
set's  is  shore  hellamile." 

"  Y'betcha,"  corroborated  Johnny,  as  earnestly  as  a  man 
may  with  a  mouthful  of  beans,  "y'betcha,  an*  then 
some." 

"I  never  knowed  no  road  agents  real  intimate,"  said 
Racey  Dawson,  "but  I  helped  hang  one  once  after  he'd 
held  up  the  Esthertown  stage  over  in  Green  County  when 
I  was  workin'  for  the  T  Down,  an'  say!  If  they're  all  like 
that  jigger!  Yuh  hear  me  talkin'  when  I  tell  yuh  we  had 
to  run  that  lad  eighty  mile  before  we  got  him,  an'  we  would 
n't  'a'  got  him  then  only  his  hoss  slipped  on  a  slide  an* 
him  an'  hoss  went  down  that  slide  the  whole  length  of  her 
on  their  heads. 

"The  hoss  busted  most  of  himself,  but  the  hold-up 
wasn't  only  bumped  up,  an'  he  scrouged  in  between  two 
windfalls  an'  put  up  a  fight  to  make  yore  hair  curl.  He 
downed  one  of  the  boys  an'  creased  a  coupla  others.  But 
we  got  him  when  his  ammunition  gave  out.  Yessir,  a 
reg'lar  road  agent  organized  for  business  can  most  generally 
make  an  ordinary  gent  step  as  high  as  a  blind  dog  in  a 
field  o'  stubble." 


JOHNNY'S  DECISION  21 

"Yo're  whistlin',"  said  another  Hogpen  boy.  "But 
two  thousand  apiece  is  shore  a  lot." 

"But  who's  to  pay  for  yore  time  if  yuh  don't  get  a  one 
of  'em?"  asked  a  practical  Farewell  citizen.  "She's  been 
goin'  on  more'n  a  year,  an'  them  road  agents  are  still  as 
plural  as  ever." 

"That's  right,"  said  Piney  Jackson,  the  blacksmith. 
"She's  Sunset's  funeral." 

"Yuh'll  notice,  gents,  them  hold-ups  don't  get  their 
legs  over  the  tongue  in  this  county,"  chimed  in  a  Fort 
Creek  booster.  "Which  they  shore  know  better." 

"All  the  same,"  muttered  Johnny  into  his  half-empty 
cup,  "I  wish  I  had  some  o'  that  money." 

Racey  Dawson  overheard  the  remark  and  glanced 
sharply  at  his  friend.  Johnny  was  already  shoving  back 
his  chair.  Without  looking  either  at  Racey  or  Telescope, 
Johnny  left  the  dining  room.  Racey  nudged  Telescope. 

"Johnny's  got  some  fool  notion,"  he  whispered.  "I  can 
tell,  because  he  looks  so careless.  Le's  foller  him." 

Once  in  the  street  Johnny  started  in  the  general  direction 
of  the  sheriff's  house.  Opposite  the  Blue  Pigeon  Store  he 
turned  aside  as  if  to  enter,  but  instead  slipped  into  the 
narrow  space  between  the  side-wall  and  the  next  building. 
And  Racey  and  Laguerre  saw  him  slip. 

"What  d'l  tell  yuh?"  demanded  Racey.  "What  d'l 
tell  yuh,  huh?  He's  up  to  somethin'  an'  he  don't  want  us 
to  know  what  it  is.  An'  when  Johnny  gets  mysterious  he 
needs  lookin'  after." 

"We  weel  do  dat,"  said  Laguerre,  and  flashed  his  white 
teeth  in  a  grin. 

The  unsuspecting  Johnny  hurried  past  the  rear  elevation 
of  the  buildings  on  Farewell's  single  street  till  he  came  to 
the  last  house.  This  house  was  the  official  residence  of 


22  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

Sheriff  Rule.  The  kitchen  door  was  open.  Judging  by 
the  clatter  and  the  shrieks,human  and  otherwise,  Mrs.  Rule 
was  washing  simultaneously  the  dishes,  the  dog,  and  the 
baby.  But  Johnny  remained  unperturbed.  In  common 
with  every  one  else,  he  knew  the  workings  of  the  sheriff's 
menage.  For  it  was  the  custom  of  ingenious  Mrs.  Rule 
to  tie  the  baby  and  the  household  pet,  by  waist  and  neck 
respectively,  to  opposite  legs  of  the  table  while  she  went 
about  her  housework. 

"Hi  there,  fellah!"  called  Johnny  loudly,  one  foot  on  the 
threshold.  "Pull  his  ol'  tail  for'm.  Whatsa  dawg  for, 
huh?  Yo're  shore  one  great  kid.  Gettin'  to  look  more 
like  yore  ma  every  day.  Oh,  howdy,  Mis'  Rule,"  he  con 
tinued  unblushingly,  taking  off  his  hat.  "  I  didn't  see  yuh 
at  first.  How  are  yuh,  ma'am?  Yo're  lookin'  fine. 
Sheriff  around?" 

Before  the  pleased  and  portly  Mrs.  Rule  could  reply 
her  husband  appeared  in  the  doorway  of  an  inner  room. 

"You  bet  I'm  around,"  he  shouted  above  the  tumult  of 
wretched  dog  and  happy  little  child  at  play.  "Gotta  be, 
when  young  fellers  like  you  come  siftin'  in  to  pass  compli 
ments  with  my  wife." 

"You  go  'long!"  beamed  Mrs.  Rule,  flapping  a  dish- 
towel  at  him.  "Climb  out  o'  my  kitchen,  the  both  o' 
yuh,  before  I  lean  on  yuh  with  the  broom." 

"Come  along,  Johnny,"  laughed  the  sheriff.  "She's 
mad  'cause  I  heard  yuh.  Oh,  yuh  gotta  get  up  early  to 
fool  the  old  man,  y'betcha." 

"Sheriff,"  said  Johnny,  when  the  door  was  shut,  "what's 
all  this  here  about  them  road  agents  o'  Sunset  County?" 

"Why,  yuh  know  yoreself,  Johnny,  how  them  jiggers 
been  holdin'  up  the  stages,  an'  rubbin'  out  miner  folks  an' 
similar  citizens,  Yuh ' 


JOHNNY'S  DECISION  23 

"Yeah,  I  know  all  that/'  interrupted  Johnny.  "I  just 
want  to  know  what  you  know  about  'em." 

"Not  a thing,"  was  the  prompt  reply,  "an'  at  that 

it's  as  much  as  everybody  else  knows." 

"Don't  Bill  Stahl  know  nothin',  either?"  disappointedly. 

"  If  he  does,  he  ain't  told  me.  Say,  Johnny,  djuh  s'pose 
if  Bill  knowed  anythin'  a-tall  to  begin  work  on  he'd  go 
cavortin'  around  tackin'  up  signs?  It  stands  to  reason, 
Bill  bein'  a  sensible  chunker,  that  he  wouldn't  want  for 
that  reward  to  be  got  by  some  one  else  less'n  he  seen  he'd 
no  chance  to  glom  on  to  her  himself.  Here's  Bill  now. 
Y'ask  him  an'  see  what  he  says." 

The  Sheriff  of  Sunset  pushed  open  the  front  door  and 
entered.  He  had  one  notice  left.  This  he  proceeded  to 
tuck  by  one  corner  into  a  crack  in  the  wall  so  that  it  pro 
claimed  slantingly  the  intentions  of  the  Territory. 

"Gotta  use  her  up  somehow,"  he  explained.  "Yuh  can 
make  a  lighter  out  of  her  when  yuh  run  short,  Jake." 

"Say,  Sheriff,  don't  yuh  know  nothin'  about  them  hold 
ups?"  Johnny  began,  without  preliminary. 

The  pupils  of  Sheriff  Stahl's  greenish-gray  eyes  became 
mere  pinpoints  of  steel. 

"Meanin'?"  he  demanded  frostily. 

Johnny  flung  up  a  hand  palm  outward. 

"I  don't  mean  what  yuh  think  I  mean,  Bill,"  said  he, 
with  his  engaging  grin.  "Djuh  s'pose  if  I  meant  that  I'd 
come  prancin'  up  an'  ask  yuh  about  it?" 

"We-ell,"  said  Sheriff  Stahl  hesitatingly,  his  voice  still 
icily  hard. 

"Don't  yuh  understand,  Bill,  all  I'm  tryin'  to  get  at  is 
ain't  there  some  li'l  sign  for  a  peg  to  hang  suspicion  on? 
Yuh  see,  I'm  figurin'  on  goin'  after  that  reward,  an'  I 
want  somethin'  to  go  on." 


24  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

"If  yuh'd  only  said  that  at  first,"  exclaimed  Sheriff 
Stahl,  his  face  clearing.     "But  I'd  oughta  knowed  yuh 
didn't  mean  nothin',  Johnny.     That's  me,  always  jumpin 
spang  at  conclusions  an'  missin'  the  black  nineteen  out  o* 
twenty.     Listen  here,  Johnny,  there  ain't  nothin'  to  hang 

suspicion  on.     Not  one li'l  thing.     I  tell  yuh,  them 

fellers  might  be  light  smoke  in  a  gale  o'  wind  for  all  yuh 
can  see  o'  them  an'  their  trail.  Honest,  I'm  almost  begin- 
nin'  to  believe  in  ghosts." 

"  Wells-Fargo  ain't  believin'  in  no  ghosts,"  put  in  Sheriff 
Rule. 

"Yuh  bet  they  ain't,"  agreed  the  Sunset  officer. 
"Johnny,  yuh  heard  me  ask  Bill  Lainey  if  Mat  Neville  was 
around.  I  was  to  meet  him  here  this  afternoon,  an'  sort 
o'  talk  things  over  in  this  deal,  an'  see  if  we  couldn't  find 
some  wagon-track  to  start  in  on.  But  there's  no  findin* 
out  nothin'  from  pore  Mat  now.  An'  he  didn't  know  no 
more'n  me  anyway  likely." 

"Yuh  don't  think  the  red-head  could  have  had  anythin 
to  do  with  it,  do  yuh?"  was  Johnny's  question. 

"With  the  hold-ups?  Not  him,  yuh  can  gamble  on  it. 
From  what  Jake  says  he's  a  right  tall  jigger,  skinny  as  a 
crane,  an'  walks  funny.  There  wasn't  no  gent  as  tall  as 
him  in  any  o'  these  hold-ups.  I  got  affidavits  an'  wrote- 
out  descriptions  from  Whiskey  Jim  an'  seven  other  fellers 
in  different  hold-ups,  an'  I  know.  No  sir,  they  ain't  no 
such  chunker  as  that  red-headed  killer  in  the  gang.  He's 
somebody  that  crossed  Mat's  trail  some'ers  else  or  some- 
thin'  an'  took  this  chance  to  play  even." 

"But  Mat  didn't  know  him,"  objected  Johnny.  "If  he 
had  he'd  never  V  set  down  with  him  so  free  an'  easy." 

"Can't  help  it,"  snapped  Bill  Stahl,  somewhat  nettled 
at  this  questioning  of  his  judgment.  "She's  like  I  say: 


JOHNNY'S  DECISION  25 

this  red-head  ain't  in  the  gang.  I  wish  he  was.  A  shinin* 
landmark  like  him  would  be  just  too  easy  to  trail." 

"How  many  in  the  gang,  Bill?"  asked  Johnny.  "Got 
any  idea?" 

"  Between  twenty  an'  thirty,"  the  sheriff  answered. 

"Many'sthat?" 

"  It's  my  guess,  an'  yuh  can  go  the  limit  I'm  right.  Why 
say,  there's  only  six  or  seven  show  up  at  a  hold-up,  but  by 
the  number  o'  hold-ups  an'  the  close  way  they  come  to 
gether  there's  a  lot  more'n  six  or  seven  in  the  gang." 

"Shore,"  cut  in  Jake  Rule,  "no  half  dozen  could  be  as 
busy  as  all  that  an'  keep  it  up  the  way  these  fellers  do. 
She's  a  big  gang,  take  my  word  for  it." 

"Yeah,"  said  Johnny,  his  gray  eyes  more  sardonic  than 
ever,  "she  sounds  a  heap  interestin'.  I  guess  now  I'll 
just  go  after  that  reward." 

"Just  you  by  yoreself?"  queried  Sheriff  Stahl. 

"Just  me  by  myself." 

At  this  juncture  the  front  door  flew  open  and  Racey 
Dawson  and  Telescope  Laguerre  entered  without  knocking. 
Racey  shook  his  head  and  his  finger  at  Johnny  Ramsay. 

"We  heard  yuh  through  the  window,"  he  said,  "an* 
y'ain't  a-goin'  to  do  nothin'  like  that  on  yore  lonesome. 
Not  for  one  li'l  minute  y'ain't.  Telescope  an'  me  have 
decided  to  go  with  yuh,  an'  then  we  can  sort  o'  look 
after  yuh  an*  horn  in  on  the  two  thousand  wheels  a 
bandit.  Ropin'  two  cows  at  once  like.  What  do  you 
guess?" 

"I  guess  yuh  can  both  go  plumb  to !"  burst  out  the 

indignant  Johnny.  "Y'act  like  I  needed  a  nurse!" 

"You  need  two  of  'em,"  averred  Racey  placidly.  "An* 
yo're  goin'  to  have  'em.  Why,  Johnny  dear,  s'pose  yuh 
got  shot  or  plugged  or  somethin'.  What'd  we  do,  I'd  like 


26  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

to  know?  An'  what'd  you  do,  with  nobody  'round  to 
write  yore  will  for  yuh?" 

For  an  instant  Johnny's  face  hardened,  then  he  laughed. 

"Whatcha  goin'  to  do  with  a  couple  o'  fools  like  these 
here?"  he  asked  of  the  two  sheriffs. 


CHAPTER  III 
PLANS 

IS'POSE  I  better  act  like  I  never  seen  yuh  before/' 
observed  Sheriff  Stahl. 
"Now  that's  just  what  yuh  don't  want  to  do," 
hastily  demurred  Johnny.     "It  stands  to  reason  that  them 
fellers  are  old  pie  in  these  parts.     They  gotta  be,  or  they'd 
'a'  been  caught  before  now.     Well,  then,  don't  yuh  s'pose 
they'll  have  a  fair  idea  about  who's  friends  with  who? 
Actin'  like  yuh  don't  know  us'll  shore  make  'em  suspicious." 

"Dat  ees  right."     Thus  Laguerre. 

Sheriff  Stahl  nodded. 

"Yore  best  plan,"  went  on  Johnny,  "is  just  to  say  *  How 
dy'  free  an*  easy  when  we  pass  yuh  an'  let  it  go  at  that. 
If  we  gotta  talk  to  yuh  we'll  let  yuh  know  an'  meet  yuh 
out  in  the  hills  some'ers.  None  o'  this  comin'  to  the  house 
at  night.  They'd  catch  on  to  anythin'  like  that  quick. 
An'  yuh'd  better  not  say  anythin'  about  us  to  yore  depu 
ties,  either." 

"Why  not?"  demanded  the  sheriff.  "They're  good 
boys,  an'  sensible  boys  an' " 

"I  know  they  are,  but  they're  young,  an*  they  take  a 
drink  now  an'  again." 

"So  do  you.     So  do  I." 

"That's  all  right,  but  we  ain't  gabby.  Tellin'  yore 
deputies  won't  help  none.  She's  enough  for  you  to  know. 
Let  it  go  at  that." 

27 


28  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

"All  right,  all  right,  I  won't  tell  'em."  The  sheriff's 
indorsement  was  a  grumble. 

"Now  for  the  rest  of  it,"  went  on  Johnny:  "One  of 
us'll  get  a  job  at  the  stage  corrals,  an' " 

"I'll  fix  it  up  with  the  agent,"  interrupted  Sheriff  Stahl. 

"Yeah,  an'  have  'Tug'  Wilson  blat  it  all  out  the  first 
time  he  gets  loaded!"  exclaimed  Johnny.  "Tug's  a  good 
agent  all  right,  but  he's  a  damsight  better  drunkard." 

Sheriff  Stahl,  not  at  all  pleased  at  Johnny's  prompt  dis 
missal  of  his  every  suggestion,  began  to  stare  rather  fixedly 
at  the  Cross-in-a-box  puncher. 

"  By  Gawd ! "  tactfully  interposed  Sheriff  Rule.  "  I  just 
got  in  three  quarts  o'  fifteen-year-old  Bourbon  by  the  last 
stage.  Straight  from  Kentucky,  gents,  an'  like  oil.  I'll 
get  her." 

The  whiskey,  mellower  than  a  ripe  Sheepnose,  greatly 
lessened  the  tension.  Sheriff  Stahl  pulled  in  his  horns  and 
smiled  pleasantly  over  the  second  glass. 

"Yuh  got  one  job  settled,"  said  he;  "how  about  the 
others?" 

"Jobs  won't  be  too  plenty,  that's  a  cinch,"  observed 
Racey,  "especially  jobs  where  we  can  slide  around  an' 
look  over  whatever's  infectin'  the  landscape." 

"There  y'are!"  Johnny  exclaimed.     "Stray  men!" 

"Stray  men!" 

"Shore,  stray  men.  Huntin'  strays'll  give  us  all  kinds 
o'  chances  to  chase  around,  an'  it'll  look  natural.  Nobody 
wonders  or  asks  questions  about  where  a  stray  man  goes. 
She's  a  cinch.  We'll  fix  her  up.  Don't  you  worry,  Sheriff. 
Yore  road  agents  is  as  good  as  dead,  caught,  or  lynched." 

The  patronizing  tone  of  the  last  sentence  grated  on  the 
sheriff's  sense  of  what  was  due  him.  He  would  have  been 
pleased  to  take  offense,  but  decided  that  such  a  course 


PLANS  29 

would  be  both  small-chested  and  foolish.  He  grunted  his 
trust  that  Johnny's  assertion  would  prove  correct  and 
opened  the  door. 

"  See  yuh  in  the  Bend — yuh'll  know  where  to  find  me," 
was  his  parting  remark. 

The  door  slammed. 

Three  minutes  later  Johnny  led  his  two  friends  in  the 
direction  of  Bill  Lainey's  corral.  Once  behind  the  corral, 
Laguerre  and  Racey  faced  Johnny,  their  expressions  elo 
quent  of  the  doubt  within. 

''Who  weel  geeve  us  de  job?"  questioned  Laguerre. 

"That'll  be  easy,"  the  confident  Johnny  assured  him. 
"  Wages  are  no  object  with  us.  We're  willin'  to  work  for 
nothin' — except  the  feller  who  draws  the  stage  station  job. 
He's  gotta  have  reg'lar  wages  to. make  it  look  right.  But 
the  stray  men  are  different.  Scotty " 

"Oh,  they  are,  are  they?"  cried  Racey.  "Which  I'd 
admire  for  to  know  why.  Me,  personal,  I'm  no  philan 
thropist,  an'  workin'  for  nothin'  is  expensive." 

"Oh,  unbutton  yore  shirt  an'  spend  two  bits  once  in  a 
while!"  snarled  the  exasperated  Johnny.  "If  I  liked  the 
feel  o'  money  as  much  as  you  do,  I'd  shore  turn  road  agent 
myself." 

"Well,  I  don't  like  workin'  for  nothin',"  grumbled 
Racey. 

"Neither  do  I,"  countered  Johnny,  "but  that's  no 
reason  why  yuh  gotta  lollop  around  with  a  face  as  long  as 
a  pony's.  Stop  cryin',  for  Gawd's  sake!  Baby  can't 
have  his  bottle  now,  no  matter  how  much  he  bellers!" 

"Yuh  know  what  yuh  can  do,  don't  yuh?"  barked 
Racey,  indignantly. 

But  Johnny  refused  to  follow  up  the  opportunity,  and 
proceeded  to  finish  the  outline  of  his  plan. 


3o  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

"Scotty  Mackenzie'll  give  us  jobs,"  he  said,  "an  havin' 
us  work  for  nothin'll  hit  Scotty  right  where  he  lives.  He's 

worse'n  Racey  when  it  comes  to  savin'  money Aw 

right,  aw  right!  Have  it  yore  own  way.  Yuh  throw 
money  away  with  both  hands  an'  hire  a  friend  to  help  yuh! 
How's  that?  As  I  was  sayin'  before  Racey  climbed  up  on 
the  table  again,  Scotty'll  make  out  to  hire  Telescope  an* 
me,  an' " 

"What!"  howled  Racey.  "Telescope  an' you!  Is  that 
the  way  yuh've  schemed  her  out?  I'm  to  work  around  the 
station  an'  wrangle  ponies  while  you  an'  Telescope  scam 
per  over  the  hills  an'  far  away  an'  have  all  the  fun.  Is  that 
it,  huh?  Well,  it  ain't!  Yuh  got  a  helluva  nerve,  you 
have,  but  I  won't  do  it!  I'll  be  a  stray  man  too  if  I  gotta 
hire  myself  to  myself,  an'  that's  whatever!" 

"Tell  the  neighbours,  why  don't  yuh?  We'd  shore  like 
everybody  to  know  our  li'l  plans." 

"But  you  want  all  the  fun,"  protested  Racey,  lowering 
his  voice. 

"I  thought  you  didn't  wanna  work  for  nothin*.  That 
stage  station  job  ought  to  suit  yuh  ace-high." 

"It  did,  when  I  figured  on  one  o'  you  fellers  takin'  it. 
But  comin'  right  down  to  cases,  I  don't  want  none  of  it 
in  mine.  I  want  action,  an'  I'm  a-goin'  to  get  it." 

"Well,  we'll  see,"  soothed  Johnny.  "We'll  see  how  we 
can  fix  her  up  to  please  yuh." 

"Yuh  can  just  bet  yuh  will,"  the  truculent  Racey  stated 
with  conviction.  "I've  seen  prize  hawgs,  but  yo're  the 
prizest." 

"Aw  shut  up,  an'  let  a  feller  think!"  rejoined  the  ever- 
courteous  Johnny. 

"What  with?"  jeered  Racey. 

"Say " 


PLANS  31 

"Yeah,  you  showed  how  much  yuh  thought  by  talkin* 
man-fashion  to  Bill  Stahl.  What  yuh  wanta  get  him  riled 
for?  Maybe  we'll  need  him." 

"Yuh  poor  idjit!  Honest  to  Gawd,  Racey,  if  yuh  had 
any  more  brains  yuh'd  be  half-witted." 

"Huh!" 

"Lookit  here.  Bill  Stahl's  either  a  plumb  fool  or  he's 
in  with  the  road  agents." 

"I  don't  t'ink  so,  me,"  declared  Laguerre. 

"Which — in  with  the  road  agents?" 

The  half-breed  nodded. 

"Yuh  dunno,  I  dunno,  an'  Racey  shore  dunno.  But  I 
aim  to  find  out.  If  he's  square,  then  he's  a  fool,  'cause  a 
square  sheriff  who  can't  locate  even  a  whiskey-glassful  o' 
suspicion  against  them  hold-ups  by  this  time  must  be  a 
fool.  If  he's  square  an'  a  fool,  gettin'  him  mad  can't  hurt 
us,  an'  it'll  only  make  him  work  harder.  If  he  ain't  square 
then  he'll  do  somethin'  to  put  the  kibosh  on  us  prompt  an* 
right  away." 

"What  yuh  tell  him  anythin'  at  all  for  then?" 

"To  find  out  where  he  stands.  We  gotta  know  that. 
Before  we're  through  we'll  have  to  find  out  where  a  good 
many  gents  in  Fort  Creek  County  stand.  Huh? — Shore 
not.  We'll  be  all  right  so  long's  we  watch  him.  The  first 
sudden  move  he  makes  we'll  get  him,  an*  there's  our  work 
half  done.  When  we  get  just  one  o'  the  gents  who's  mixed 
up  in  this  the  rest'll  be  easy.  You'll  see.  Whatsa  matter 
with  yuh,  Racey?  Lookit  Telescope.  He  ain't  actin' 
nervous  o'  nothin'." 

"I  ain't  nervous!"  bawled  the  outraged  Racey.  "An* 
I  can  lick  the  two  of  yuh  with  both  hands  tied  behind 
me." 

"I  guess  now  yuh  really  could,"  said  Johnny  seriously, 


32  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

"  'cause  all  yuh'd  have  to  use  then  would  be  yore  tongue. 
Now,  now,  good  hoss,  nice  li'l  doggie,  pretty  kitty,  don't 
scratch.  Telescope,  he's  gettin'  too  fresh,  we'll  just  have 
to  give  him  the  Dutch  rub.  Grab  him!" 

So  they  grabbed  him,  and,  despite  heavy  resistance,  they 
inflicted  upon  him  the  Dutch  rub.  Which  exercise,  as 
every  one  knows,  consists  in  currying  a  man's  head  with 
the  bare  knuckles.  When  Racey  had  yelped  "Uncle" 
several  times,  and  a  perfect  understanding  had  been  estab 
lished,  they  desisted  from  their  labours  and  rolled  cigarettes 
in  flawless  amity. 

"Yuh  don't  guess  there's  twenty  or  thirty  in  the  gang, 
do  yuh?"  asked  Racey,  when  his  cigarette  was  burning 
properly. 

"Which  I  should  say  not.  Stahl's  crazy.  Twenty  or 
thirty!  Hell's  bells,  can  yuh  see  a  gang  o'  road  agents 
splittin'  what  they  steal  twenty  or  thirty  ways?  I  can't, 
an*  my  eyesight's  as  good  as  the  next  feller's.  In  the  first 
place  none  of  'em  would  make  enough,  an'  in  the  second 
twenty  or  thirty  would  make  the  risk  too  big.  Somebody'd 
shore  snitch.  No,  sirree,  I'm  tellin'  yuh  there  ain't  more'n 
six  or  seven  at  the  outside." 

"That's  twelve  or  fourteen  thousand  wheels,"  announced 
Racey  Dawson. 

"Eef  we  have  de  luck,  ten  t'ousan',"  qualified  Laguerre. 

"Whatsa  matter  with  ten  thousand  split  three  ways?" 
observed  Johnny.  "She's  a  lot  more'n  we'll  earn  wrastlin' 
cows." 

"Shore,"  said  Racey.     "When'll  we  go?" 

"The  sooner  the  quicker,  but  we  gotta  see  Jack  Richie 
first,  Racey,  an'  Telescope'll  want  to  go  back  to  the  Bar  S. 
To-day's  Tuesday.  S'pose  we  meet  here  Thursday  an* 
start  then." 


PLANS  33 

"Dat  ees  all  fine,"  declared  Laguerre,  "but  we  do  not 
wan*  for  ride  to  de  Ben*  togedder." 

"An*  why  not?"  inquired  Johnny. 

"Well  den,  tree  men  ridin*  een  togedder  weel  mak  de 
road  agent'  ask  de  question,  bien  sur." 

"  Never  thought  o*  that.  We'll  have  to  go  one  at  a  time. 
Who  goes  first?" 


CHAPTER  IV 
THE  NORTHERN  TRAIL 

DEED  Jack  mak  de  row  w'en  you  say  you  wan*  for 
go?"  asked  Laguerre,  when  the  three  met  two 
days  later. 

"Naw,"  grinned  Racey,  "jus'  says,  'Oh,  I  s'pose  so. 
Soon's  you  chunkers  get  any  money  yuh  gotta  canter  out 
an*  spend  her/'3 

"Give  us  our  time  an'  says  not  to  get  too  drunk,"  said 
Johnny.  "Drunk!  If  he  only  knowed  he'd  give  up  his 
job  o'  managin'  the  Cross-in-a-box  an'  come  along." 

"He  don't  an'  he  won't,"  chuckled  Racey.  "C'mon, 
Johnny,  what  yuh  waitin'  for?  She's  Thursday  afternoon 
already.  Maybe  now  yuh'd  like  me  to  take  yore  turn?" 

"Not  so's  yuh  could  notice  it,"  returned  Johnny.  "Li'l 
Mister  Racey  drawed  the  shortest  piece  o'  grass,  an'  li'l 
Mister  Racey'll  follow  Telescope  like  he'd  oughta." 

"Well,  maybe,"  grumbled  Racey,  "but  I  don't  take  no 
roustabout's  job  at  the  stage  corral,  yuh  can  bet  on  that." 

Within  ten  minutes  Johnny  Ramsay  was  on  the  trail 
leading  to  Paradise  Bend.  He  rode  at  a  trot,  for  there 
were  some  two  hundred  miles  of  side-hill  and  flat  in  front 
of  his  horse's  nose,  and  the  lope  is  not  a  long-distance  gait. 

On  a  morning,  three  days  later,  where  the  trail  topped 
a  ridge  and  dropped  down  into  a  broad  basin  where  red 
willows  and  cottonwoods  grow  beside  a  shallow  creek 
Johnny  stopped  to  tighten  his  cinches.  When  the  saddle 

34 


THE  NORTHERN  TRAIL  35 

was  nailed  Fast  he  swung  up  and  rode  onward,  and  as  he 
rode  he  sang  pleasingly  of  the  fortunes  of  a  certain  Sweet 
Betsy  from  Pike.  For  he  knew  that  the  shallow  creek  was 
the  Yellow  Medicine,  and  that  Paradise  Bend  was  a  scant 
twenty  miles  away. 

And  now  the  trail  ran  close  beside  the  trees  bordering 
the  bank  of  the  creek.  The  tired  pony,  grateful  for  the 
patches  of  shade,  slowed  of  his  own  accord  to  a  walk.  A 
little  breeze  played  among  the  cottonwoods  and  Johnny 
kicked  his  feet  out  of  the  stirrups  and  pushed  back  his  hat 
the  better  to  enjoy  it.  His  singing  dwindled  to  a  tuneful 
hum,  barely  to  be  heard  above  the  voice  of  the  creek  bub 
bling  to  itself  in  the  shallows.  Through  the  gaps  in  the 
trees  Johnny  saw  the  lush  green  of  the  sun-drenched  flats 
on  the  other  side  of  the  creek.  On  his  own  side  the  ground 
rose  in  rounded  swoops  to  the  rock-crowned  summit  of  a 
high  and  hump-backed  hill  where  jackpines  and  spruce 
grew  among  the  outcrops. 

A  mile  ahead  a  pine-clad  spur  of  the  hill  sprawled  down 
ward  to  the  very  bank  of  the  creek.  Here  a  way  for  the 
trail  had  been  cut  through  the  trees.  In  Johnny's  opinion 
the  spot  where  the  trail  bent  in  among  the  cottonwoods 
was  an  ideal  place  for  a  hold-up. 

"A  team's  gotta  slow  for  the  turn,  ain't  they,  feller?" 
he  said  to  his  horse.  "An*  they's  plenty  cover  on  both 
sides.  I  remember  they  used  to  be  two  big  rocks  about 
twenty  feet  up  from  the  road  among  them  pines.  A  gent 
could  lay  behind  'em  all  salubrious  an'  happy  an'  ventilate 
most  anythin'  he'd  a  mind  to.  Kind  o'  funny,  but  they 
ain't  never  been  a  hold-up  just  right  there  that  I  know 
of." 

Crack  !  Crack  !  Crack  !  Three  flat  reports  sounded 
faintly  on  the  trail  ahead.  Johnny  promptly  jerked  his 


36  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

horse  in  among  the  cottonwoods.  He  dragged  the  Win 
chester  from  the  holster  under  his  left  leg,  and  clicked  a 
cartridge  into  the  barrel.  He  lowered  the  hammer  to 
safety  and  rode  forward  through  the  trees. 

"They  wasn't  shootin'  at  me,"  he  reflected.  "Not  for 
a  minute.  It's  a  hold-up,  no  two  ways  about  it.  An'  right 
where  they've  never  had  one.  This  is  shore  luck." 

But  there  are  many  kinds  of  luck.  This  was  one  of 
those  kinds.  Johnny  was  halfway  from  the  ideal  spot  for 
a  hold-up  when,  coming  to  a  crook  in  the  bank  of  the  creek, 
he  had  an  excellent  view  of  a  stretch  of  water  a  half-mile 
in  the  clear  and  three  horsemen  fording  it  briskly.  As  the 
riders  were  at  the  very  end  of  the  half-mile  stretch  and, 
furthermore,  disappeared  almost  on  the  instant  among  the 
trees  of  the  farther  bank,  Johnny  neither  shouted  nor  shot. 
Tn  the  one  case  they  could  not  have  heard  him  above  the 
noise  of  their  own  passing,  and  in  the  other  a  law-abiding 
person  may  not  cut  down  without  some  shred  of  evidence 
betokening  evil  intent.  Of  pursuit  there  was  no  question. 
Johnny's  tired  horse  was  utterly  incapable  of  any  exercise 
so  violent. 

Johnny  promptly  took  to  the  trail  and,  by  dint  of  spur 
ring  and  lavish  use  of  the  quirt,  the  pony  was  persuaded  in 
to  a  slow  gallop. 

Among  the  cottonwoods,  where  the  trail  turned  aside 
to  skirt  the  spur,  Johnny  halted  his  trembling  pony.  For 
his  expectations  of  the  worst  were  fulfilled.  Tragedy  at 
her  blackest  had  been  abroad,  and  departing  had  left 
behind  her  in  the  trail  a  dead  horse  and  two  dead  men. 

The  dead  horse  lay  between  the  shafts  of  a  buckboard. 
Of  the  two  dead  men  one  hung  face  downward  over  the 
dash,  the  other  lay  with  arms  all  abroad  across  the  seat, 
his  eyes  staring  at  the  hot,  bright  sky. 


THE  NORTHERN  TRAIL  37 

Johnny  glanced  across  the  creek.  On  the  farther  bank 
at  this  spot  the  cottonwoods  grew  but  thinly,  and  he  saw 
between  the  boles  a  mile-wide  opening  between  two  hills. 
Through  this  opening  he  glimpsed  the  treeless  slope  of  the 
long  ridge  beyond.  Up  this  slope  three  dots  were  crawling. 

Johnny  coolly  flicked  up  his  backsight  to  extreme  range, 
cocked  his  rifle,  caught  a  steady  rest  against  a  cottonwood 
trunk  and  fired  twice  at  those  well-bunched  dots.  They 
were  horsemen  and  the  horses,  two  chestnuts  and  a  black- 
tail  dun,  were  hued  precisely  as  were  the  horses  the  three 
men  had  galloped  across  the  creek  a  few  minutes  before. 

Johnny  stepped  past  the  thinning  smoke-cloud  and 
squinted  at  the  distant  slope.  The  three  riders  were  still 
riding  on,  and  they  did  not  appear  to  be  hurrying  to  any 
extent. 

"No  go,"  mourned  Johnny,  and  jammed  his  Winchester 
down  against  a  cottonwood.  "Can't  hit  'em  at  this  range 
— that's  a  cinch.  No  sir,  Daisy  Belle,  yuh  gotta  carry 
just  about  six  hundred  yards  more  before  yuh'd  do  me  a 
bit  o'  good  to-day." 

Daisy  Belle  was  what  he  called  his  Winchester.  Johnny 
could  not  pull  or  shoot  a  six-gun  as  could  Tom  Loudon,  the 
Bar  S  foreman,  but  with  the  long  arm  he  had  yet  to  meet 
his  equal.  Prone,  kneeling  or  standing,  from  the  hip  or 
shoulder,  over  all  ranges,  Johnny  Ramsay  was  an  expert. 
And  now  he  felt  himself  and  his  pet  grievously  insulted 
that  the  men  at  whom  he  had  just  shot  had  not  been  within 
range  by  a  few  yards  at  least. 

With  a  sigh  Johnny  went  to  examine  the  dead  men  in 
the  buckboard.  There  was  not  much  to  see.  A  bullet 
had  neatly  traversed  the  head  of  each,  and  turned-out 
pockets  testified  to  the  thoroughness  with  which  they  had 
been  robbed. 


38  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

"They  only  left  'em  their  six-shooters,"  said  Johnny, 
"an'  a  sawed-off  shotgun." 

He  picked  up  the  latter  firearm.  It  was  an  eight-gauge 
Greener,  a  weapon  much  affected  by  bartenders  and  Wells- 
Fargo  guards.  Johnny's  eyes  strayed  to  the  two  boulders 
wedged  between  pine  trees  on  the  steep  slope  above  the 
trail. 

"Bet  that's  where  they  hid  out,"  he  muttered  and  laid 
the  shotgun  down  on  the  seat,  and  walked  round  the  buck- 
board  preparatory  to  climbing  the  acclivity.  But  Johnny 
was  not  destined  to  investigate  the  place  of  ambush  that 
day. 

Even  as  he  stepped  across  the  trail  there  broke  on  his 
ear  from  the  direction  of  the  Bend  the  lively  thudding  of  a 
galloping  horse.  Johnny  slid  silently  to  the  tree  against 
which  his  rifle  leaned.  But  he  did  not  pick  up  the  Win 
chester.  Instead  he  leaned  against  the  treetrunk  and 
made  himself  a  cigarette.  Mechanically  his  fingers  shaped 
the  white  roll,  for  his  eyes  were  engaged  in  observing  the 
approaching  rider.  He  saw  that  the  man  looked  neither 
to  the  right  nor  left,  but  rode  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the 
opening  in  the  trees  into  which  the  trail  plunged. 

Johnny,  standing  well  back  and  behind  three  trees,  stood 
in  a  perfect  concealment.  He  stuck  his  unlighted  cigarette 
between  his  lips,  hooked  his  thumbs  in  his  belt,  crossed  one 
foot  over  the  other,  and  waited. 

The  horseman  rocked  out  of  the  open  sunshine  into  the 
shadow  of  the  trees  and  at  sight  of  the  buckboard  slowed 
his  horse  to  an  easy  halt.  There  was  a  certain  keen  eager 
ness  in  the  gaze  of  the  rider  as  he  stared  at  the  buckboard 
and  what  lay  therein  and,  at  Johnny's  horse  where  it  stood 
with  lowered  muzzle  blowing  the  dust  about  on  the  surface 
of  the  trail. 


THE  NORTHERN  TRAIL  39 

The  horseman  was  not  a  man  to  whom  Johnny's  heart 
went  out.  Plump  and  well-built,  his  hands  were  white 
and  fat,  and  the  dark  hair  showing  beneath  his  white  hat 
was  slick  with  pomatum.  Irresistibly,  he  brought  to 
Johnny's  mind  that  predatory  night-runner,  the  crafty 
coyote.  For  the  man's  nose  was  long  and  thin  and  pointed 
and  his  ears  matched  his  nose,  and  his  chin  matched  his 
ears  most  marvelously.  Johnny  bet  himself  that  the 
eyesockets  were  long  and  pointed  too.  Johnny  coughed 
abruptly. 

"I  win,"  he  announced,  and  calmly  proceeded  to  light 
his  cigarette.  "I  should  'a'  said  slantin'  too,"  he  added 
between  puffs,  referring  to  the  other's  eyes. 

The  horseman  continued  to  regard  him  fixedly. 

"What  do  you  mean  by  'slantin'  too'?"  he  inquired, 
after  a  space. 

"The  sunbeams,"  replied  Johnny,  with  a  vacant  stare. 
"Don't  yuh  see  how  they  slant  like  through  the  leaves? 
Not  that  it's  any  of  yore  business." 

The  stranger'swide  mouth  broadened  into  awintry  smile. 
But  his  pale  blue  eyes,  like  other  eyes  into  which  Johnny 
had  stared  now  and  again,  were  mirthless.  They  perfectly 
bore  out  the  threat  of  the  wintry  smile. 

"Didn't  know  I  was  here  till  I  coughed,  didja?"  said 
Johnny.  "I  didn't  know  whether  to  cough  or  not,"  he 
added  artlessly. 

"Didn't  you?" 

"No,  I  didn't." 

With  a  suddenness  that  was  startling  the  stranger  threw 
back  his  head  and  laughed.  Oddly  enough,  it  was  a  hearty, 
comradely  laugh,  the  laugh  that  springs  from  a  cheerful 
heart  at  peace  with  all  the  world.  Furthermore,  so  great 
was  the  stranger's  ecstasy  that  he  reeled  in  the  saddle. 


40  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

When  the  man  lowered  his  chin  there  were  tears  in  his 
eyes.  He  wiped  these  away  with  a  very  large  and  very 
white  handkerchief,  and  smiled  anew.  And  now  his  smile 
was  no  longer  wintry.  It  held  all  the  bright  promise  of  a 
fair  and  summer  day.  And  his  eyes,  so  lately  full  of  chill 
menace,  were  warm  with  sportive  waggishness.  But 
Johnny  liked  him  none  the  better,  and  watched  him,  if 
that  were  possible,  a  thought  more  closely. 

"  There  seems  to  have  been  an  accident,"  observed  the 
stranger,  nodding  toward  the  buckboard. 

"I  dunno  as  I'd  call  it  exactly  that/'  corrected  Johnny. 

"What  would  you  call  it  then?" 

The  blue  eyes  lost  a  trifle  of  their  jocularity. 

"I  dunno,"  evaded  Johnny.  "I  wasn't  here  when  it 
happened." 

Was  that  relief  in  the  stranger's  eyes  ?  Was  it  ?  Johnny 
could  not  be  positive.  He  sagged  back  against  the  tree- 
trunk,  and  rubbed  one  ankle  against  the  other.  His 
cigarette  hung  loosely  from  a  corner  of  his  slack  mouth. 
He  stared  blankly  at  the  stranger. 

The  latter  slowly  turned  his  eyes  away  from  Johnny 
to  the  buckboard.  Slowly  he  dismounted  and  went  to  the 
buckboard  and  bent  over  the  two  dead  men  and  examined 
their  wounds.  He  raised  his  head  and  shot  a  quick  look 
at  the  lack-luster  Johnny. 

"Didn't  hear  any  shots  fired,  did  you?"  was  his  casual 
question. 

"Three,"  replied  Johnny. 

The  stranger  gazed  fixedly  at  the  puncher.  His  hand 
strayed  to  his  vest.  Johnny,  expecting  the  flash  of  a 
derringer,  dropped  his  own  right  hand  slightly.  But  the 
stranger  merely  fished  a  cigar  from  an  upper  vest  pocket. 
He  bit  off  the  end  and  struck  a  match.  Whether  he  had 


THE  NORTHERN  TRAIL  41 

perceived  the  movement  of  Johnny's  hand,  Johnny  could 
not  tell. 

"You  heard  three  shots,"  observed  the  stranger,  watch 
ing  the  blue  smoke  curl  upward. 

"I  said  so — once,"  drawled  Johnny. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  the  stranger  hastened  to  say. 
" Of  course,  you  said  so — once.  See  anybody?" 

"Three  men,"  said  Johnny. 

"Three  men,"  repeated  the  stranger  calmly.  "Three 
men.  Quite  a  band.  Which  way  did  they  go?" 

Johnny  told  him.     The  stranger  nodded. 

"It's  no  use  chasing  them,"  he  declared.  "Still,  the 
sheriff  should  be  notified  at  once." 

"Shore  should,"  Johnny  agreed  heartily.  "S'spose  yuh 
ride  right  back  to  the  Bend  an'  do  it.  Yore  hoss  looks 
fresher' n  mine." 

"We  might  as  well  go  together,"  suggested  the  stranger. 
"They've  got  such  a  start  the  posse  won't  be  able  to  do 
much." 

"  Nothin'  like  tryin'.  If  I  was  you  I'd  climb  on  my  hat- 
rack  an'  pull  my  freight  prompt  an'  sudden  to  the  Bend. 
An'  say,  howdja  know  I'm  goin'  to  the  Bend,  anyhow?" 

"This  is  how,"  remarked  the  stranger,  and  at  the  instant 
of  his  speaking  Johnny  looked  into  the  stubby  twin  barrels 
of  a  derringer. 

How  the  other  had  obtained  the  drop  was  a  complete 
mystery  to  Johnny.  Some  of  his  surprise  was  manifest 
in  his  expression,  and  the  stranger  laughed. 

"Didn't  see  my  hand  move,  did  you?"  said  he. 

"Shore  didn't,''  acknowledged  Johnny,  his  upraised 
arms  bending  inward  the  brim  of  his  hat.  "What  for  a 
play  is  this,  huh?"  he  added  without  anger.  "You  don't 
look  like  a  road  agent." 


42  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

The  other  laughed  aloud. 

"Road  agent!"  he  cackled.  "Me!  That's  a  good  one, 
stranger.  I've  been  called  a  lot  of  names  during  my  life, 
but  I've  never  been  called  a  road  agent  till  now." 

"Yuh'll  be  called  worse  things  than  that,  if  yuh  don't 
lemme  put  my  hands  down  soon,"  averred  Johnny. 

"You'll  be  called  a  corpse  if  you  start  putting  them  down 
before  I  give  the  word." 

"I  thought  at  first  this  was  a  joke,  but  I  see  now  it  ain't. 

She's  serious,  serious.     My  arms   are   beginnin'   to 

ache.  If  you  want  my  money,  she's  yores,  the  whole  five 
dollars  an'  six  bits.  Anythin'  I  can  do  to  help,  just  lemme 
know.  Always  glad  to  oblige.  That's  me." 

"Step  away  from  the  tree — that's  it.  Now  turn 
around — you  can  drop  your  arms  and  face  me,  if  you 
like." 

Johnny  wheeled.  The  stranger  was  stuffing  Johnny's 
six-shooter  into  the  waistband  of  his  trousers.  Johnny's 
rifle  was  propped  against  the  hind  wheel  of  the  buckboard. 
Lacking  the  friendly  weight  in  the  holster  against  his  leg, 
Johnny  felt  strangely  lonely.  It  was  the  first  time  in  his 
life  that  he  had  been  disarmed. 

"Now,"  said  the  stranger,  "if  you'll  oblige  me  by  mount 
ing  your  horse  we'll  go  back  to  the  Bend." 

"That's  all  right.     But  wThyfor,  stranger,  whyfor?" 

"You'll  find  out  when  we  reach  the  Bend.  Climb 
aboard.  I've  told  you  once." 

Johnny  swung  up  and  rode  past  the  buckboard.  The 
stranger,  displaying  an  agility  extraordinary  in  one  of  his 
build,  gained  his  own  saddle  without  losing  the  magic  of 
the  drop.  Reaching  down  he  picked  up  Johnny's  Win 
chester  by  the  barrel  and  laid  it  across  his  lap. 

"Let's  start,"  was  the  stranger's  suggestion.     "And  if 


THE  NORTHERN  TRAIL  43 

I  were  you  I  wouldn't  look  round  too  much.  In  the  first 
place,  it  isn't  necessary.  I'll  be  right  here.  And  in  the 
second,  your  horse  might  stumble  and  throw  you  over  his 
head.  Why  run  the  risk?" 

"  Shore,"  agreed  Johnny.     "  Why  ? " 


CHAPTER  V 
PARADISE  BEND 

THE  name  was  half  true.  The  town  was  situated  at 
the  bend  of  the  Dogsoldier  River  where  it  loops 
between  the  yellow  brown  of  Old  Baldy  Mountain 
and  the  dark  green  of  the  Government  Hills.  But  it  was 
no  paradise.  And  certainly  it  conveyed  not  the  remotest 
suggestion  of  Elysium  to  Johnny's  mind  as  he  entered  it 
on  that  very  hot  afternoon,  with  the  stranger  and  the 
stranger's  derringer  at  his  horse's  tail.  Of  course  the  affair 
would  be  adjusted  within  a  few  minutes.  Sheriff  Stahl 
would  attend  to  that.  Johnny's  chief  trouble  was  the 
rank  humiliation  of  his  position.  He  was  not  accustomed 
to  being  ridiculous. 

The  Bend,  slightly  larger  than  Farewell,  prided  itself 
on  two  stores,  a  Wells-Fargo  office,  two  dance-halls  and 
five  saloons.  The  wide  and  straight  main  street  and 
three  crooked  side  streets  were  a  riotous  nightmare  of 
false  fronts,  misspelt  signs,  boxsided  shacks  and  log 
houses. 

An  indolent  citizen  roosting  in  a  tip-tilted  chair  against 
the  wall  of  the  Wells-Fargo  office  was  the  first  to  glimpse 
the  new  arrivals. 

"What  yuh  got,  Harry?"  he  called  without  moving. 

"  Road  agent,"  replied  the  stranger.  "  Caught  him  right 
at  work." 

By  this  time  the  indolent  citizen  was  out  on  the  street, 

44 


PARADISE  BEND  45 

running  hard  in  the  direction  of  a  horse  tied  at  the  hitching- 
rail  in  front  of  the  Three  Card  saloon. 

"I'll  get  my  rope,"  the  erstwhile  indolent  one  bawled 
over  his  shoulder.  "She's  brand  new." 

"Road  agent,  huh?"  cried  Johnny,  swinging  his  horse 
about.  "You-  -liar!" 

"Put  'em  up!"  ordered  the  stranger,  aiming  the  derrin 
ger. 

"I  won't,"  yelled  Johnny,  torn  with  rage.  "I  ain't  got 
no  gun!  Yuh  know  I  ain't!  I  dare  yuh  to  shoot!" 

The  stranger  did  not  shoot.     He  laughed. 

"All  right,"  he  said.  "Suit  yourself.  You'll  be  lynched 
so  soon  it  doesn't  really  matter.  Only — don't  try  to  run." 

From  private  residences,  saloons,  dance-halls  and  stores, 
came  hurriedly  the  inhabitants  of  the  Bend.  Male  and 
female,  they  clustered  round  Johnny  and  his  captor  and 
demanded  details  and  the  rope.  Two  prominent  citizens, 
alive  to  their  public  duty,  pulled  Johnny  from  his  horse. 
The  puncher,  shoved  and  jostled  by  the  curious,  ceased 
not  to  clamour  for  the  sheriff. 

"Shut  up,  for  Gawd's  sake!"  importuned  one  of  the 
men  holding  his  arms.  "Y'act  like  yuh  had  some  rights." 

Johnny  did  not  obey,  and  the  man  ill-advisedly  clapped 
a  large  and  dirty  hand  over  the  prisoner's  mouth.  Johnny 
promptly  bit  his  thumb.  The  man  yelled  and  cuffed 
Johnny  alongside  the  head.  Johnny  immediately  wrenched 
both  arms  free  and  fell  foot  and  fist  upon  the  cuffer. 

Johnny  had  barely  thirty  seconds  to  work  in  before  be 
ing  wrenched  from  his  prey  by  seven  men.  Nevertheless 
the  result  was  most  creditable.  The  cuffer  dragged  him 
self  upright,  spat  out  two  teeth  and  a  mouthful  of  blood, 
and  tenderly  fingered  a  flattened  nose  and  a  torn  ear. 

"  By  Gawd ! "  mumbled  the  cuffer.     "  By  Gawd ! " 


46  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

"Sic  him  again,  Joe!"  cried  a  derisive  voice  in  the  rear 
of  the  crowd.  "What  yuh  afraid  of?  There's  eight  men 
holdin'  him!" 

"Who  said  that!"  bellowed  Joe  the  cufFer,  making  a 
great  show  of  seeking  out  the  owner  of  the  voice  while  the 
crowd  roared  its  appreciation  of  the  incident. 

"Say,  I  want  the  sheriff!"  yelled  Johnny  for  the  thirty- 
first  time  hand-running. 

"Take  it  easy,"  advised  one  of  his  captors.  "Yuh  don't 
need  no  sheriff,  nohow.  Stop  yore  squallin',  there's  a 
good  feller." 

"There's  a  good  nothin',  yuh  fool!"  retorted  Johnny. 
"The  sheriff  knows  me.  He'll  tell  yuh  I  ain't  a  road 
agent." 

"That's  what  they  all  say,"  smiled  the  other.  "Sorry 
we  can't  oblige  yuh.  But  the  sheriff  ain't  here.  He's  out 
some'ers  romancin'  round  after  a  hoss  thief,  an'  we  can't 
wait  till  he  gets  back." 

Including  the  sheriff,  Johnny's  list  of  friends  in  the  Bend 
was  limited  to  some  half-dozen  people.  There  were  Scotty 
Mackenzie  and  his  outfit,  of  course,  but  Scotty's  ranch,  the 
Flying  M,  was  ten  miles  out  of  town. 

"Get  Jim  Mace  an'  Soapy  Ragsdale!"  cried  the  desper 
ate  Johnny.  "They  know  me.  So  does  Cap'n  Burr  an' 
his  family.  Hell's  bells,  don't  I  get  no  chance  a  tall?" 

"No  more'n  yuh  gave  other  folks,"  was  the  serene 
counter.  "  Can't  yuh  keep  quiet  ?  I  wanta  hear  what  yuh 
done." 

"Johnny!"  exclaimed  a  surprised  voice.  "Hello, 
Johnny.  What's  the  trouble?" 

A  tall,  big-boned  man  with  square  features  plowed 
through  the  crowd,  speaking  as  he  came.  The  big  man 
halted  in  front  of  Johnny  and  seized  his  hand  where  it 


PARADISE  BEND  47 

showed  beneath  the  other  hands  holding  wrist  and  fore 
arm. 

"Whatsa  matter?"  demanded  the  big  man,  pumping 
violently. 

"These  idjits  say  I'm  a  road  agent,"  explained  Johnny. 

"Then  they  are  idjits,"  averred  the  bold  Mister  Mace. 
"Road  agent!  Here  comes  Soapy." 

The  storekeeper  Ragsdale  pushed  up  and  repeated  the 
pump-handle  process  on  Johnny's  hand. 

"  Shore  glad  to  see  yuh,  Johnny,"  he  assured  the  prisoner. 
"Huh?— Road  agent!  We'll  see  about  that.  Hi,  Buster!" 
he  shouted  to  his  small  son,  a  goggle-eyed  child  often  who 
was  gaping  at  the  prisoner  from  between  the  bow  legs  of 
a  lengthy  cowboy,  "chase  over  to  the  store  an'  get  my 
Spencer  carbyne.  Skip,  now." 

Buster  skipped  and  the  crowd  stilled  its  clamour  some 
what.  The  hearty  greeting  of  the  prisoner  by  two  such 
men  as  Jim  Mace  and  Soapy  Ragsdale  was  having  its 
effect.  The  stranger  who  had  captured  Johnny  rode  for 
ward  and  smiled  engagingly  down  at  Jim  Mace  and  Soapy 
Ragsdale.  They  returned  his  smile  with  dispassionate 
stares. 

"I  said  your  friend  is  a  road  agent,"  he  remarked  quietly. 
"I  still  say  so.  About  three  hours  ago  I  found  him  stand 
ing  beside  Old  Man  Fane's  buckboard.  In  the  buckboard 
were  Old  Man  and  Bill  Homan  dead  as  Julius  Gesar,  the 
pair." 

"The  dust!"  gasped  the  Wells-Fargo  agent.  "The  dust! 
Old  Man  Fane  had  two  thousand  ounces  with  him!  He 
was  takin'  it  to  Marysville!" 

"There  was  no  dust  in  the  buckboard,"  declared  the 
stranger.  "Both  bodies  had  been  robbed." 

A  great  silence  descended   upon  the  crowd.     Johnny 


48  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

could  hear  the  rasp  of  a  new  rope  being  uncoiled.  He 
reiterated  his  innocence  and  demanded  that  the  sheriff 
be  sent  for.  There  was  an  instant  cackle  of  uncheerful 
laughter.  Old  Man  Fane  had  been  popular  in  the  Bend. 
Johnny  endeavoured  to  give  his  version  of  the  affair. 
The  cruel  laughter  smothered  his  utterance. 

"No  use  waitin',"  suddenly  exclaimed  the  citizen  who 
had  been  the  first  to  glimpse  the  arrival  of  Johnny  and  the 
stranger.  "There's  evidence  enough  for  forty  men,  gents. 
Here's  the  rope." 

"Here's  my  carbyne!"  rebutted  Mister  Ragsdale  earn 
estly,  plucking  that  seven-shooting  firearm  from  the  clutch 
of  his  panting  offspring.  "  I  ain't  makin'  no  threats,  not  a 
threat,  but  yuh  can  put  down  a  bet  there's  a-goin'  to  be  a 
whole  lot  more  evidence  before  anybody's  gets  hung.  An* 
that's  the  branch  I  live  on." 

"We'll  see  about  that!"  shouted  a  voice  from  the  crowd. 

"If  the  gent  will  step  out  from  where  he's  a-hidin*  I'll 
be  glad  to  argue  with  him,"  said  Ragsdale  silkily. 

The  crowd  did  not  laugh,  and  no  one  stepped  out  from 
anywhere.  Mister  Ragsdale  evidently  belonged  to  a 
species  quite  different  from  that  of  the  prominent  citizen 
whose  thumb  Johnny  had  bitten  to  the  bone.  Ragsdale 
waited  a  dignified  minute,  then,  no  overt  act  occurring, 
he  turned  on  the  stranger. 

"Slay,"  said  he,  "where's  the  two  thousand  ounces  Old 
Man  Fane  was  packin'?" 

"How  do  I  know  where  this  man  hid  it?"  rejoined  the 
stranger. 

"Oh,  he  hid  it,  did  he?"  Jim  Mace  remarked  with  sar 
casm.  "Hid  it,  an'  then  waited  for  you  to  come  along  an' 
corral  him.  Is  that  it?" 

"I  guess  he  wasn't  really  intending  to  wait,"  smiled 


PARADISE  BEND  ,9 

Slay,  refusing  to  take  offense.     "You  see,  I  came  upon  him 
unexpectedly." 

"Gents!"  cried  Johnny,  "you  ain't  had  any  real  evi 
dence  yet.  So  far  she's  just  his  word  against  mine,  an' 
my  word's  as  good  as  his." 

"We  know  him,  an'  we  don't  know  you,"  returned  a 
citizen  with  a  dyed  mustache. 

"Soapy  an'  me  know  him!"  blazed  Jim  Mace. 
"O'  course,  o'  course,"  soothed  Dyed  Mustache,  whose 
name  was  Ganey,  "but  there's  us.     We  got  opinions,  an' 
I  tell  yuh,  Jim,  I  don't  like  the  looks  o'  this  jigger.     He 
may  be  yore — 

"May  be?"     Thus,  coldly,  Mister  Mace. 
"He  is  yore  friend,"  Ganey  hastily  corrected  himself,  and 
continued.     "But  when  did  yuh  see  him  last?" 
"Two  years,"  Jim  Mace  admitted  reluctantly. 
"There!"  Ganey  exclaimed  in  triumph.     "Two  years! 
Why,  say,  Jim,  that's  a  long  time,  two  years  is.     I've  seen 
hosses  turn  bronc  in  less'n  two  years.     Why  couldn't  a 
gent  do  the  same?" 

"Some  gents  might,"  Jim  Mace  remarked  meaningly, 
"but  not  Johnny  Ramsay." 

"We  dunrio  that,"  averred  Ganey.  "We  dunno  nothin* 
about  him.  But  he  shore  looks  hard,  an'  lookit  where 
Harry  Slay  found  him — standin'  right  alongside  the  buck- 
board,  with  Old  Man  Fane  an'  Bill  Homan  dead  an'  all. 
It  shore  don't  look  right,  it  don't.  I've  seen  men  stretched 
for  a  lot  less,  a  whole  lot  less." 

Ganey  hooked  his  thumbs  in  the  armholes  of  his  vest, 
swelled  out  his  chest,  and  looked  about  him  for  approval. 
"Where  did  they  find  you,  Johnny?"  asked  Ragsdale. 
"At   the   buckboard,   like   he   says,"    replied   Johnny, 
"but " 


50  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

"Hear  that!"  shouted  the  officious  Ganey.  "He  ad 
mits  it!  What  are  we  waitin'  for?  Where's  that  rope?" 

Ragsdale's  carbine  immediately  covered  Ganey's  ab 
domen. 

"Maybe  this  is  why  yo're  waiting  Ganey,"  said  he. 

The  crowd  split  away  from  Ganey.  The  latter  was 
attracting  entirely  too  much  attention,  and  Soapy  Rags- 
dale  was  known  as  a  touchy  gentleman  utterly  reckless  of 
consequences. 

"Oh,  be  reasonable,  Soapy,"  urged  Slay.  "It  isn't 
necessary  to  pull  on  any  one.  We're  all  friends  here." 

"All  this  talk  o'  ropes  ain't  friendly,"  complained  the 
fretful  Mister  Ragsdale.  "Besides,  it  makes  me  nervous, 
an'  I  don't  like  it." 

"For  Gawd's  sake,  Soapy,  point  that  carbyne  some'ers 

else,"  Ganey  implored  distressfully.  "Yuh  got  the 

thing  cocked." 

"An'  I  got  my  finger  on  the  trigger,  if  yo're  a-lookin'  for 
real  information,"  returned  Ragsdale  calmly.  "I  don't 
like  this  here  bellerin'  round  for  ropes,  an'  I  don't  give  a 
—  who  knows  it." 

"I  was  just  a-askin',"  apologized  Ganey.  "It  seemed 
natural — considerin'." 

"You  must  admit,  Soapy,"  ventured  Slay,  stepping 
forward,  but  carefully  avoiding  Ganey's  immediate  vicinity 
"you  must  admit  that  the  evidence  is  fairly  conclusive." 

"Yo're  another  one  that  gives  me  a  pain!"  snapped 
Ragsdale.  "S'pose  yuh  did  find  Johnny  near  the  buck- 
board.  S'pose  they  was  forty  dead  men  in  it.  It  don't 
prove  he  done  it,  do  it?" 

"There's  an  empty  shell  in  his  rifle,"  put  forth  Slay. 
"Here  she  is." 

Jim  Mace  seized  the  Winchester  and  worked  the  lever. 


PARADISE  BEND  51 

The  ejector  flipped  out  a  spent  shell.  Jim  Mace  set  the 
hammer  at  safety  and  picked  up  the  shell. 

"Nothin's  proved  yet,"  he  said  evenly. 

"I  fired  two  shots  at  the  fellahs  that  done  them  killin's," 
explained  Johnny. 

"How  many  was  they?"  inquired  Jim  Mace. 

"Three  of  'em." 

"Why  didn't  yuh  say  so  before?"  demanded  Ragsdale's 
rival  in  trade,  a  cadaverous  person  named  Dusen. 

"Yuh  didn't  gimme  no  chance,"  retorted  Johnny. 
"Lemme  tell  my  side  of  it  now." 

"We're  simply  wasting  time,"  protested  Slay.  "The 
man's  guilty  as  all  hell.  Nothing  he  may  say  can  alter  it. 
Why  wait?" 

Which  sentiments  coincided  with  those  of  the  majority. 
There  was  a  shuffling  of  feet  and  a  slow  shifting  of  posi 
tions.  Slay  smiled — slightly.  Jim  Mace's  mouth  became 
a  thin,  white  line. 

"They  say  yo're  a  good  man  on  the  draw,  Slay,"  ob 
served  Jim  Mace.  "If  yuh  think  yuh  can  beat  the  lead 
out  o'  this  Winchester,  hop  to  it.  Now  I'm  tellin'  yuh  if 
they  is  any  hangin',  she's  goin'  to  be  after  a  trial — a  reg'lar 
fair  trial.  An'  I'm  tellin'  yuh  too  if  they  is  any  hangin' 
before  the  trial  you  won't  be  with  us  to  pull  on  the  rope." 

Slay  looked  from  the  muzzle  of  the  Winchester  bearing 
on  his  stomach  to  the  serene  features  of  Jim  Mace. 

"Why,  of  course,"  he  agreed,  with  admirably  simulated 
heartiness.  "A  trial,  by  all  means.  I  should  be  the  last 
to  impede  the  wheels  of  justice." 

"I  hoped  yuh'd  see  our  way  of  it,"  Jim  Mace  said  drily. 

Then  came  a  large  man  with  a  brown  beard  and  a  mar 
shal's  star,  demanding,  after  the  fashion  of  police  officers, 
the  reasons  for  drawn  weapons.  Several  endeavoured  to 


52  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

enlighten  him,  but  bull-voiced  Jim  Mace  overrode  them 
all  and  gave  his  version  to  the  marshal. 

"An*  yuh  know  him,  Dan,"  said  Jim  Mace  in  conclusion. 
"It's  Johnny  Ramsay,  one  o'  the  Cross-in-a-box  outfit 
down  on  the  Lazy.  He's  all  right." 

Dan  Smith  looked  at  Johnny. 

"I  remember  him,"  was  his  grudging  admission,  "but 
I  never  said  two  words  to  him  in  my  life.  He's  one  o' 
Scotty's  friends.  I  seen  him  once  out  at  the  Flying  M." 

"  Oh,  y'admit  it,  do  yuh  ? "  barked  Ragsdale  sarcastically. 
"Yo're  a  fine  Injun,  you  are.  She's  a  wonder  to  me  yuh 
don't  say  yuh  never  seen  him  before." 

"  Yuh  know  well  enough,  Soapy,  I'm  a  officer  o'  the  law," 
protested  thre  marshal.  "I  can't  go  sympathize  with  no 
body." 

" yore  sympathy!"  snorted  truculent  Ragsdale. 

"Who  wants  the  thing?  We  don't.  We  can  look  out  for 
ourselves,  an'  we're  a-goin'  to,  y'bet  yuh." 

"Now,  Soapy,  it  don't  do  no  good  to  talk  that  way," 
chided  the  marshal.  "An'  it  don't  sound  good  neither. 
She  sounds  like  yuh  didn't  care  nothin'  for  law  an'  order." 

"I  don't,"  Ragsdale  promptly  assured  him.  "I  don't 
give  three  hells  an'  a  dam'  for  law  an'  order.  I'm  here  to 
see  justice  done,  an'  that's  a  cat  with  another  kind  o'  tail." 

"But  I'm  here,"  offered  the  affronted  marshal.  "I'm 
paid  to  see  justice  done,  so  don't  yuh  worry." 

"I  ain't,"  returned  Ragsdale.     "Not  one  li'l  bit." 

"We  gotta  have  a  trial,"  proclaimed  the  marshal,  en 
deavouring  to  appear  unconscious  of  Ragsdale.  "She's 
gotta  be  legal.  We'll  adjourn  to  the  Golden  Rule  an' 
fight  it  out.  There's  plenty  room  there." 

"An'  there's  a  tree  out  back,"  supplemented  one  of  the 
men  holding  Johnny. 


PARADISE  BEND  53 

"Oh  yes,  I  was  comin'  to  you,  Spill/'  Jim  Mace  observed 
softly  to  the  speaker.  "S'pose  yuh  leggo  that  arm  an* 
lemme  take  it — as  a  favour,  a  small  li'l  favour  to  oblige  me, 
Spill." 

Spill  did  not  see  his  way  clear  to  refuse.  He  reluctantly 
relinquished  Johnny's  right  arm  into  the  keeping  of  Jim 
Mace. 

"Thought  maybe  yuh'd  feel  better  havin'  a  gent  yuh 
know  around,"  remarked  Jim  Mace,  giving  Johnny's  biceps 
a  friendly  pressure.  "How's  tricks  down  on  the  Lazy?" 

"Comin'  in  bunches,"  Johnny  grinned,  winking  a  cool 
eye  at  Jim. 

"Say,  Tom,"  observed  Jim  Mace,  leering  across  at  the 
man  on  the  prisoner's  left,  "how  about  sort  o'  lettin'  go 
entirely  o'  my  friend's  arm?  It  ain't  really  necessary, 
yuh  know." 

Tom  Keen  was  one  of  Slay's  friends.  He  wore  a  hard 
look  and  two  guns.  Nevertheless  he  followed  Jim  Mace's 
suggestion  without  hesitation. 

"Seein'  as  it's  you,  Jim,  I  don't  mind  none  at  all," 
affirmed  Tom  in  the  endeavour  to  save  his  face.  "We  all 
know  you." 

"Shore  yuh  do,"  said  Jim  Mace  with  a  wicked  smile. 
"We're  all  for  justice  an'  a  quiet  life  in  this  town — huh? 
All  right,  Dan,  we're  with  yuh." 

But  they  were  not  with  Dan — not  just  yet.  A  very 
pretty  girl  stepped  plump  in  front  of  the  prisoner  and  held 
out  her  hand.  Her  breath  was  coming  fast  as  though  she 
had  been  running,  and  her  ardent  dark  eyes  were  sparkling, 
and  her  cheeks  were  very  red. 

"How  are  you,  Mister  Ramsay?"  she  said  clearly. 
"Don't  you  remember  me?" 

"Do  I ?"  cried  Johnny.     "Well,  say!" 


54  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

At  which  the  pretty  girl  blushed  redder  than  ever  and 
the  crowd  snickered.  But  little  Johnny  cared  for  the 
crowd.  Tactful  Jim  Mace  immediately  loosed  his  grip 
on  Johnny's  arm,  and  the  puncher  seized  the  girl's  fingers 
in  a  fervid  grasp. 

"I  shore  am  glad  to  see  yuh!"  he  exclaimed,  pumping 
energetically,  and  noting  with  distinct  pleasure  that  the 
man  Slay  seemed  hugely  displeased  thereat.  "How's 
yore  ma  an'  pa,  Miss  Burr?" 

"They're  all  fine.  Pa's  out  on  the  route  just  now,  an' 
ma's  over  at  Mis'  Acker's  on  Jack  Creek.  Soon's  Mis' 
Mace  told  me  you  were  in  trouble  I  chased  young  Sammy 
Barnes  out  after  ma.  That's  why  I  was  so  long  getting 
here.  I  almost  had  to  fight  Sammy  to  make  him  do  what 
I  wanted.  He  wanted  to  see  the  excitement,  the  blood 
thirsty  brat." 

"Yuh  say  yuh  sent  for  yore  ma?"  demanded  the  marshal 
in  dismay. 

"I  certainly  did,"  replied  Miss  Burr,  sharply.  "If 
Sammy's  horse  doesn't  fall  down  she  ought  to  be  here 
within  two  hours." 

"C'mon!"  ordered  the  marshal,  seizing  Johnny  by  the 
arm.  "Get  a  gait  on.  We  gotta  hurry." 

"Scared,  are  yuh,  old-timer?"  laughed  Miss  Burr.  "I 
guess  you  know  what'll  happen  when  ma  gets  here,  don't 
you?  Remember  what  she  called  you  when  you  played 
the  fool  in  that  Loudon  case?" 

"You  bet  he  remembers,  Dor'thy!"  gibed  the  shrill  voice 
of  Mrs.  Ragsdale.  "Lookit  him,  gettin'  all  red.  If  he'd 
only  wash  his  face  now  an'  then,  he'd  get  redder." 

Which  mordant  if  inelegant  jest  was  salty  with  truth, 
for  the  marshal  was  a  bachelor  and  careless  in  his  habits. 
The  crowd  whooped  its  appreciation,  and  the  marshal 


PARADISE  BEND  55 

almost  broke  a  tooth  in  his  efforts  to  maintain  a  dignified 
silence. 

"Whatsa  matter,  fellah?"  fleered  Johnny.  "Yore  jaw- 
muscles  look  like  they  was  a-goin'  to  bust  plumb  through 
yore  cheeks.  Are  yuh  mad  or  somethin'?" 

The  marshal  answered  not,  and  Johnny  grinned.  His 
spirits  were  returning,  and  in  full  force.  Loyal  friends  are 
indeed  the  best  little  heart-uplifters  in  the  world. 


CHAPTER  VI 
THE  HEMPEN  SHADOW 

PARADISE  BENDERS,  so  many  as  could  find  room, 
crowded  into  the  Golden  Rule  at  the  tail  of  the 
group  surrounding  Johnny.  The  disappointed  ones 
filled  the  open  window-spaces  with  eager  heads  and 
shoulders,  to  the  mental  anguish  of  Dave  Dusen,who  feared 
for  his  precious  panes.  But  the  possible  shattering  of 
window-glass  was  not  the  only  fly  in  the  proprietor's  amber. 
Two  boxes  of  crackers  and  one  of  prunes  stood  invitingly 
open  to  the  public  gaze  and  hand. 

"Them  prunes  ain't  samples!"  wailed  Dave,  diving 
behind  his  counter.  "They' re  for  sale!  They  cost  money! 
Take  yore  hoofs  out  o'  that  box,  will  yuh,  Tom?  That 
goes  for  the  crackers,  too!  Here,  I'll  stick  'em  under  the 
counter  till  court's  over." 

But  half  the  crackers  and  most  of  the  prunes  had  dis 
appeared  before  Dave  was  able  to  sequestrate  his  property. 
It  was  almost  a  perfect  day  for  the  crowd.  Soapy  Rags- 
dale  cocked  a  mocking  eye  at  Dan  Smith  and  smiled 
sweetly.  For  well  he  knew  that  the  marshal,  in  selecting 
the  Golden  Rule  as  the  place  in  which  to  hold  court,  had 
intended  thereby  to  slight  him,  Soapy,  and  correspondingly 
do  honour  to  Dave  Dusen.  Which  honour  had  proved  a 
brisk  boomerang  and  seriously  strained  an  ancient  friend 
ship.  It  was  almost  a  perfect  day  for  Soapy  too. 

The  marshal  opened  court,  constituted  himself  judge, 

56 


THE  HEMPEN  SHADOW  57 

appointed  twelve  jurors  and  lined  them  up  along  the 
counter. 

"A  jury  ain't  really  necessary,"  said  the  marshal;  "she's 
such  a  plain  open-an'-shut  case.  But  we  gotta  be  legal,  so 
pernickety  folks'll  be  satisfied." 

"Meanin'  me  an*  Jim,  I  s'pose,"  chuckled  the  irrepressi 
ble  Ragsdale.  "Why  don't  yuh  say  so  right  out,  instead 
o'  climbin'  all  round  the  stump  thisaway?" 

"I  wasn't  namin'  no  names,"  was  the  marshal's  lame 
retort. 

"I  notice  yuh  didn't  name  our  names  none  when  yuh 
picked  yore  jury,"  Jim  Mace  observed  drily. 

"Well,  I'm  tryin'  to  be  fair,"  the  marshal  explained, 
"an*  you  two  fellers  are  the  prisoner's  friends  too  much." 

"  Don't  he  talk  sensible,"  remarked  Johnny.  "  If  Mister 
Smith  tries  any  harder  to  be  fair  he'll  strain  his  conscience 
or  somethin'.  An'  then  where'll  he  be?" 

"Yo're  too  fresh,  young  feller,"  reproved  the  hard-faced 
Tom,  one  of  the  jurors.  "Yuh  better  talk  slow  around 
here — sort  o'  hogtie  yore  tongue  a  few." 

"Is  that  so?"  flung  back  Johnny,  anxious  to  waste  all 
the  time  he  could.  "  How  many  gents  have  you  downed  ? " 

"Shut  up!"  bawled  the  marshal,  hammering  with  a 
bung-starter  on  a  barrel  of  vinegar.  "Not  another  yap 
out  o'  you!  You  don't  seem  to  realize  none  how  nice  yo're 
bein'  treated." 

"  Don't  make  me  laugh,"  begged  Johnny. 

"  I  expect  we  won't."     Grimly  from  Slay. 

"Friend  Slant-Eye  again,"  Johnny  acknowledged  good- 
humouredly.  "You  won't  never  be  satisfied  till  yuh  see 
me  hung,  will  yuh?" 

"You  better  believe  I  won't!"     With  enthusiasm. 

"It'll  shore  be  a  shame  to  disappoint  yuh,  Slant-Eye," 


58  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

commiserated  Johnny.  "Can  yuh  stand  it,  do  yuh 
think?" 

Such  flippancy  did  not  please  the  crowd.  It  turned 
ugly  again.  But  Jim  Mace  and  Soapy  Ragsdale  faced  it 
down  to  the  marshal's  patent  disgust.  It  was  apparent 
that  he  would  welcome  almost  any  quick  and  sure  method 
of  disposing  of  the  prisoner.  Miss  Burr,  wedged  in  be 
tween  plump  Mrs.  Mace,  thin  Mrs.  Ragsdale  and  a  knobbly 
sack  of  potatoes,  smiled  reassuringly  at  Johnny.  He 
grinned  back,  winked  happily,  and  thrust  his  tongue  into 
his  cheek  as  Slay  began  to  repeat  the  story  of  the  crime  and 
the  arrest.  Even  as  he  had  stuck  to  the  truth  in  the  street 
so  now  did  he  stick  to  the  truth  in  the  Golden  Rule.  But 
Slay  was  undeniably  clever,  and  a  clever  man  may  give 
Truth  a  bit  of  covering  here  and  there  to  conceal  her 
nakedness  withal,  to  the  end  that  the  lady  appears  of  a 
totally  different  aspect.  With  devilish  cunning  he  con 
trived  to  blend  argument  and  statement  of  fact  so  that  the 
two  were  one. 

When  Slay  sat  down  and  tranquilly  lit  a  cigar  Johnny 
perceived  that  he  must  fight  for  his  life  in  harsh  earnest. 
He  knew  that  Jim  Mace  and  Soapy  Ragsdale  would  see 
it  through  in  the  smoke  if  the  verdict  went  against  him,  a 
contingency  involving  their  deaths  as  well  as  his  own. 
Two  men  can  not  successfully  combat  a  whole  town. 
Johnny,  after  listening  to  Slay's  remarks,  rather  doubted 
the  ability  of  Mrs.  Burr  to  save  him.  Even  if  she  could 
she  might  not  arrive  in  time.  Furthermore,  it  would  be 
humiliating  to  owe  his  life  to  a  woman.  It  will  be  seen 
that  Johnny's  peculiar  dilemma  presented  a  more  numer 
ous  array  of  horns  than  nature  allots  to  the  average  cows. 

Johnny  stood  up  on  his  feet  and,  taking  a  long  breath, 
prepared  to  plunge  in.  Then  he  almost  laughed  aloud, 


THE  HEMPEN  SHADOW  59 

for  the  way  out  had  suddenly  opened  before  him  with 
farcical  ease.  With  unhurried  fingers  he  rolled  a  cigarette 
one-handed  and  snapped  a  match  alight  with  his  thumb 
nail.  He  turned  to  Jim  Mace. 

"Jim,"  he  said,  "have  yuh  got  that  spent  shell  yuh 
pumped  out  o'  my  Winchester?" 

Jim  Mace  silently  handed  him  the  cartridge  case. 
Johnny  held  the  case  upright  before  the  eyes  of  the  marshal. 
Along  the  length  of  the  brass  cylinder  ran  two  bright 
parallel  scratches. 

"Yuh  seen  Jim  pump  this  spent  shell  out  o'  my  gun, 
didn't  yuh?"  asked  Johnny. 

"Yeah,"  nodded  the  marshal. 

A  quiver  of  interest  rippled  through  the  crowd.  Dor 
othy  Burr  nudged  Mrs.  Mace  and  Mrs.  Ragsdale  with 
her  elbows,  and  smiled  delightedly. 

"He's  thought  of  something,"  she  whispered.  "I  can 
see  it  in  his  eye." 

Her  friends  smiled  back.  In  common  with  most  women 
they  possessed  the  instinct  for  romance,  and  they  sensed 
in  the  situation  heart-interest  a-plenty. 

"Would  yuh  mind  pumpin'  out  the  magazine,  Jim?" 
said  Johnny. 

Jim  Mace  promptly  began  to  work  the  lever  of  the  Win 
chester.  Seven  loaded  shells  clattered  on  the  floor.  These 
shells  Johnny  picked  up  and  held  for  the  marshal  to  in 
spect.  The  jury  he  had  disregarded  from  the  first. 

"See,  old-timer,"  observed  Johnny.  "They's  two 
scratches  on  the  side  of  each  one  o'  these  shells,  just  like 
they  was  on  the  spent  shell,  ain't  they?" 

"Yeah."  Again  the  marshal  nodded  after  the  fashion 
of  a  china  mandarin. 

"Now  I  want  an  unbusted  box  o'  45-90  cartridges," 


60  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

continued  Johnny.  "Huh? —  To  prove  my  case.  What 
yuh  guess? —  No,  I  don't  wanna  load  the  rifle  myself.  I 
want  you  to  do  it.  Hurry  up  with  that  box.  Mister 
Smith's  in  a  hurry.  Here  y'are,  Mister  Smith.  Just 
snick  round  the  edge  with  yore  finger-nail,  will  yuh,  an' 
take  the  cover  off?  That's  the  ticket.  Take  out  six  or 
seven  o'  them  shells  an'  look  at  'em  close.  Don't  see  no 
scratches  or  nothin'  do  yuh?  All  a  smooth  yaller,  ain't 
they? — They  are,  you  admit  it.  Now  load  'em  into  my 
rifle  an'  then  pump  'em  out." 

"Say,  what  kind  o'  foolishness  is  this,"  snarled  the  mar 
shal,  "loading  an'  unloadin'  yore  Winchester  thisaway? 
Djuh  think  I'm  a  idjit?" 

"I  know  you  are,  old-timer,"  Johnny  replied  calmly. 
"Yuh  needn't  apologize.  I  know  yuh  can't  help  it. 
S'pose  now  yuh  do  what  I  say  like  a  good  fellah." 

The  "good  fellah,"  amid  the  happy  chortlings  of  the 
mercurial  crowd,  slowly  stuffed  half-a-dozen  cartridges 
through  the  loading-gate  into  the  magazine. 

"Pump  'em  out  an'  look  at  'em,"  commanded  Johnny. 

The  marshal  obeyed. 

"See  them  twin  scratches  now,"  cried  Johnny  triumph 
antly.  "  Every  last  one's  got  'em,  ain't  they  ?  Shore  they 
have.  My  loadin'-gate's  nicked,  an'  every  shell  yuh 
stick  in  gets  scratched  thataway." 

"What's  that  got  to  go  with  yore  killin'  Old  Man  Fane 
an*  Bill  Homan?"  demanded  the  marshal. 

"She's  got  a  li'l  bit  to  do  with  provin'  I  didn't  kill  Old 
Man  Fane  an'  Bill  Homan,"  retorted  Johnny.  "It'll  be 
hard  to  prove  it  to  yuh — yo're  so  half-witted,  but  I'll  do 
my  li'l  old  best.  Yuh  remember  what  I  said  about  shootin' 
at  the  jiggers  crossin'  the  Yellow  Medicine  right  after  I 
heard  them  three  shots.  I  said  I  shot  twice,  didn't  I? 


THE  HEMPEN  SHADOW  6r 

All  right.  Yuh  got  the  spent  shell  o'  one  o'  them  shotsv 
Jim  Mace  pumped  her  out  o'  my  rifle.  The  other  shell 
yuh'll  find  near  a  cottonwood  about  ten  feet  from  the 
place  where  Old  Man  Fane's  buckboard  is  standin'  in  the 
trail.  That's  the  only  shell  o'  mine  yuh'll  find  anywhere 
around  there. 

"An'  as  I  had  a  steady  rest  against  that  cottonwood 
with  my  back  to  the  road  when  I  cut  down  on  them  three 
gents  yuh'll  find  the  spent  shell  between  the  cottonwooJ 
an*  the  road.  It  ought  to  be  plain  to  yuh  from  that  I 
didn't  bushwhack  Fane.  If  I  had  I'd  'a'  been  behind  the 
cottonwood,  an'  the  spent  shell  would  'a'  been  between 
the  tree  an'  the  creek.  Then  again  yuh'll  find  the  marks 
o'  my  heels  where  I  stood  when  I  fired.  I  remember  the 
ground  was  soft,  an'  they  sunk  in  some.  An'  them  heel- 
marks'll  be  on  the  buckboard  side  o'  the  cottonwood 
tree." 

"Aw,  we  ain't  got  no  time  for  that!"  objected  the  hard- 
faced  Tom. 

"That's  shore  hard  luck,"  mourned  Johnny,  "but  I 
don't  wanna  be  hung  none,  so  I'll  just  go  on  an'  finish  my 
li'l  piece — if  yuh  haven't  any  objection.  I  wouldn't 
want  to  do  anythin'  to  make  yuh  mad  or  nothin'.  Me 
bein'  a  orphan  I  gotta  be  careful  what  I  do  an' " 

"G'on!     G'on!"  snapped  the  marshal. 

"Why  shore,"  assented  Johnny.  "I  was  just  goin'  to 
say  that  the  lead  that  killed  Old  Man  Fane  an'  Bill  Homan 
an'  the  hoss  all  come  from  above  an'  from  the  other  side 
o'  the  road.  I  dunno  neither  o'  them  men  personal,  but 
I  take  it  that  Old  Man  Fane  was  the  gent  with  the  white 

beard Yeah,  he  was,  huh  ?     All  right,  the  bullet  that 

killed  Old  Man  Fane  went  in  above  the  right  temple, 
come  out  below  the  left  ear  an'  grazed  his  left  shoulder.. 


62  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

The  other  feller  was  shot  plumb  through  the  temple,  the 
bullet  come  out  his  neck,  an*  buried  itself  in  his  left  shoul 
der. 

"I  dunno  nothin'  about  the  hoss  exceptin'  he  was  drilled 
back  o'  the  ear.  I  didn't  take  notice  where  the  bullet 
went  after  that.  Now  I'm  gamblin'  that  behind  the  rocks 
scrouged  in  between  two  pines  a-growin'  maybe  twenty — 
thirty  feet  up  the  side  o'  the  hill  where  she's  good  an'  steep 
yuh'll  find  three  spent  shells  without  any  scratches  on  'em. 
Maybe  yuh  won't.  Them  fellers  might  not  'a'  pumped 
'em  out,  but  it'd  be  a  heap  natural  for  'em  to  pump  'em 
out,  bein'  road  agents  an'  likely  to  need  their  Winchesters 
quick  an'  in  a  hurry. 

"Say!  here's  somethin*  I  didn't  think  of  before:  yuh 
know  she's  kind  o'  hard  to  judge  the  size  of  a  bullet  by  the 
hole  she  makes  in  a  gent — the  flesh  is  too  ragged,  but  the 
hole  in  Bill  Roman's  hat  was  a  mite  smaller  than  the  hole 
in  Old  Man  Fane's.  An*  the  lead's  still  in  Roman's 
shoulder.  Dig  her  out,  an'  I'll  gamble  the  limit  yuh'll  find 
she's  40-65  or  38  or  somethin'  like  that.  It's  a  cinch  she 
ain't  as  big  as  mine,  an'  mine's  the  reg'lar  45-90.  There 
y'are,  Mister  Smith.  Yore  proof  is  right  in  an'  near  that 
buckboard.  Fly  at  it." 

The  marshal  frowned.  The  jury  and  crowd  did  more 
tnan  frown.  They  voiced  immediate  objections.  Which 
was  natural.  An  investigation  of  Johnny's  side  of  the 
question  would  have  been  a  rank  departure  from  long- 
established  methods  of  procedure.  What  was  all  this  talk 
of  bullet-holes  and  shooting  from  above  and  so  forth? 
Foolishness!  Hadn't  Harry  Slay  told  a  straight  and  con 
clusive  story? 

Of  course  he  had.  Hells  bells,  what  more  did  the  road 
agent  want?  He  was  unreasonable,  that's  what  he  was. 


THE  HEMPEN  SHADOW  63 

Hadn't  other  men  found  in  less  criminal  circumstances 
been  hung  at  sight?  Men  pointed  with  pride  and  many 
oaths  to  the  fact  that  they  certainly  had  been  so  hung. 
Custom  dies  hard.  Besides,  it  was  nearly  twenty  miles 
to  the  Yellow  Medicine,  and  it  was  a  hot  day. 

The  marshal  glanced  warily  at  Jim  Mace  and  Soapy 
Ragsdale,  for  he  had  an  uneasy  feeling  that,  in  the  event 

of  hostilities,  he  would  be  the  first  to  die.  Still The 

marshal  coughed  impressively  and,  while  affecting  to 
scratch  his  hip-bone,  fingered  the  butt  of  his  six-shooter. 

"Gents,"  said  the  marshal,  addressing  the  jury,  "y'all 
heard  what  Harry  Slay  said.  Y'all  heard  what  this  feller 
said.  What  do  you  say?" 

"Yes,  gents,  what  do  you  say?"  drawled  an  unexcited 
voice  from  the  doorway.  "I'd  shore  admire  to  hear." 

The  marshal's  jaw  dropped  with  almost  an  audible  click. 
He  at  once  withdrew  his  hand  from  his  gunbutt  and  ran  a 
worried  finger  round  the  inside  of  his  collar.  Miss  Burr 
laughed  with  an  almost  hysterical  joy. 

"Hello,  Scotty!"  called  Johnny. 

"  Howdy,  Johnny !  I'll  get  to  yuh  in  a  li'l  while.  Hello, 
Dave.  Seems  kind  o'  crowded  in  here  to-day.  Trade 
a-boomin',  huh?" 

Scotty  Mackenzie,  eight  of  his  riders  in  his  wake,  forced 
his  way  through  the  press.  The  jurors  looked  uncomfort 
able.  The  hard-featured  Tom  began  to  fidget.  Ganey 
of  the  dyed  mustache  swallowed  his  chew  and  nearly 
strangled.  Slay's  friends  quickly  assumed  their  most  in 
nocent  expressions.  Slay  himself  appeared  to  be  unmoved. 
He  watched  Scotty's  approach  with  lazy  eyes.  The  units 
comprising  the  remainder  of  the  assemblage  looked  at  one 
another  and  shifted  their  feet  if  not  their  opinions. 

Scotty   and   his   boys  shook   hands  with   Johnny   and 


64  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

gravely  asked  how  he  did.  Of  the  nine  men  Scotty  Mac 
kenzie  had  the  least  inspiring  presence.  He  was  dilapidated 
with  a  startling  completeness.  His  boots  were  ancient, 
sadly  run  over  at  the  heels,  and  cut  about  the  tops.  His 
trousers  were  patched  at  one  knee  and  ripped  at  the  other. 
His  vest  was  gone  at  the  armholes  and  a  pocket  or  two  had 
fetched  away.  His  blue  flannel  shirt  had  faded  to  a  sickly 
green  in  many  places.  A  large  hole  yawned  in  the  crown 
of  his  flappy-brimmed  hat,  and  through  a  smaller  hole  in 
the  side  his  grizzled  hair  protruded. 

Scotty  wore  a  chin  whisker  and  his  features  had  been 
built  with  a  view  to  service  in  the  missionary  field.  But 
the  effect  of  this  mild,  bland  face  was  nullified  by  a  pair 
of  bright  blue  eyes  that  could,  on  occasion,  become  hard 
and  fierce  with  a  hardness  and  a  fierceness  usually  asso 
ciated  with  that  interesting  animal,  the  Bengal  tiger.  No 
indeed,  Scotty  Mackenzie  was  distinctly  not  a  person  to 
monkey  with. 

At  the  present  moment  Scotty  was  standing  with  his 
wiry  legs  planted  well  apart  and  was  smiling  pleasantly  at 
the  marshal.  The  latter  had  never  seen  a  Bengal  tiger, 
so  he  thought  of  the  timber  wolf  instead.  Scotty  was  a 
smaller  man  than  the  marshal,  but  somehow  the  marshal 
felt  that  he  was  looking  up  to  Scotty.  Dan  Smith  was  no 
coward.  He  was  not  actually  afraid  of  Scotty,  yet  he 
wished  from  the  bottom  of  his  heart  that  he  had  taken  the 
prisoner's  part  a  little  more. 

"I'm  clean  forgettin'  the  jury,"  Scotty  drawled  apologet 
ically,  and  pivoted  on  one  heel.  "Gents,  yuh  was  goin'  to 
say  somethin'  when  I  got  here.  What  was  it?" 

"They  was  just  a-goin'  to  move  to  adjourn  over  to  the 
Yaller  Medicine  about  twenty  miles,"  put  in  the  marshal 
before  a  juryman  could  speak.  "Seems  like  they's 


THE  HEMPEN  SHADOW  65 

some  evidence  there  we  gotta  look  at  before  decidin*  this 
case." 

"Oh,  yeah,"  said  Scotty.  " Guess  the  boys  an'  me'll 
sort  o'  trail  along.  We  ain't  busy  a  li'l  bit.  Yuh  see,  I 
was  standin'  in  that  doorway  a  good  ten  minutes  before 
anybody  seen  me." 


CHAPTER  MI 
Scorn*  MACKENZIE 

HERE'S  a  spent  shell!"  cried  one  of  Scotty's  outfit, 
a  bristle-haired  young  man  named  Swing  Tunstall. 
He  handed  the  shell  to  Scotty,  and  the  latter 
held  it  up  for  the  marshal  to  see. 

"Yuh'll  notice  Swing  found  her  on  the  buckboard  side 
o'  that  cottonwood  about  ten  feet  off  the  road/*  Scotty 
pronounced  in  a  dry  tone.  "An'  here's  Johnny's  twin 
scratches  down  the  side.  Le's  go  look  for  the  heel-marks." 

The  presence  of  the  heel-marks  in  the  soft  ground  having 
been  verified,  twenty  men  including  the  jurors,  Scotty 
and  the  marshal,  climbed  the  steep  slope  to  where  the  two 
boulders  snuggled  between  their  guardian  pines. 

Behind  the  boulders  they  found  three  spent  shells — two 
45-90*5  and  one  40-65. 

"Not  scratched  a  bit,  none  of  'em,"  abserved  Scotty. 
"Dug  that  bullet  out  o'  Homan  yet,  Cal?"  he  called  to  an 
earnest  seeker  after  light  on  the  trail  below. 

"In  a  minute,"  replied  Cal.  "My  knife  done  touched 
her  all  right,  but  she's  kind  o'  behind  a  bone.  She's 
a-comin'." 

She  came  and  was  duly  examined  by  the  multitude. 

"40-65  bullet,"  was  Scotty's  remark.  "So  Johnny 
didn't  fire  that  cartridge.  An'  he  didn't  fire  them  two 
unscratched  45-90*5  neither.  I  guess  that  pretty  near 
settles  the  cat-hop." 

66 


SCOTTY  MACKENZIE  67 

"Shore  it  does,"  the  marshal  affirmed  with  forced  hearti 
ness.  "I  guess  the  jury's  satisfied.  Gents,  yo're " 

"But  I  ain't  satisfied — yet,"  interrupted  Scotty 
smoothly.  "Yuh  forget  Johnny  seen  three  jiggers  cross 
the  creek.  We'll  slide  down  and  look  at  the  tracks.  An* 
while  we're  about  it,  we  might  just  as  well  find  out  where 
they  tied  their  hosses  while  they  was  bushwhackin'  Old 
Man  an'  Bill.  All  them  li'l  things  help,  yuh  know,"  he 
added  plaintively. 

No  one  was  deceived  by  his  tone.  All  accompanied  him 
without  demur.  After  quartering  the  ground  for  fifteen 
minutes  Scotty  and  his  followers  halted  in  a  pocket  among 
the  pines. 

"  Here's  where  they  tied  their  hosses,"  announced  Scotty. 
"Three  hosses,  an'  by  the  looks  o'  the  ground  they  was 
standin'  here  awhile.  Le's  go  down  to  the  creek." 

They  traced  the  tracks  from  the  pocket  to  the  creek, 
up  the  opposite  bank,  and  out  across  the  flats. 

"I  guess  this  is  most  enough,"  said  Scotty,  halting  a 
hundred  yards  from  the  water. 

"She  was  enough  before,"  the  hard-featured  Tom  as 
sured  him.  "I  guess  we  know  when  everythin's  all  right." 

"I  guess — maybe — yuh  do,"  was  Scotty's  drawling  en 
dorsement. 

But  Scotty  was  not  looking  at  Tom.  The  hard  blue 
stare  was  directed  straight  into  the  pale  eyes  of  Harry  Slay. 
The  latter  promptly  smiled  in  a  most  engaging  fashion. 

"This  is  fine,"  he  declared  without  hesitation.  "I  am 
delighted  that  matters  have  turned  out  as  they  have,  and 
that  your  friend  gets  a  Scotch  verdict — the  benefit  of  the 
doubt,  in  other  words." 

"Benefit  of  the  doubt."  Thus  Scotty,  softly,  almost 
tenderly. 


f «  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

"A  slip  of  the  tongue,"  beamed  Slay,  with  a  flash  of 
white  teeth.  "I  should  have  said  'unquestionably  cleared 
of  the  charge  against  him'." 

"Yeah,  yuh  should  have,"  said  Scotty.  "Funny  how 
folks  don't  always  think  o'  the  right  thing  to  say." 

"Surely  is,"  agreed  the  good-humoured  Slay.  "Have  a 
cigar?"  ' 

"Cigarettes  kind  o'  suit  my  health  better,"  parried 
Scotty,  fishing  out  the  makings. 

"Better  stick  to  'em  then,"  advised  Slay,  and  began  to 
walk  away  from  there. 

Swing  Tunstall  looked  at  his  friend  Jack  McCall  and 
rubbed  a  solemn  chin.  Jack  thrust  his  tongue  into  his 
cheek.  Later,  in  the  bunk-house,  they  would  recount 
with  delight  how  their  employer  ran  a  blazer  on  Harry  Slay 
and  forced  that  plump  person  to  say  what  he  had  not  in 
tended  to  say. 

Scotty  gave  no  evidence  that  he  realized  what  he  had 
done.  Mildly  he  asked  Tunstall  for  a  match,  lit  his  ci 
garette,  and  plodded  slowly  back  to  the  buckboard  with 
the  others. 

"Where's  Harry?"  queried  a  citizen  named  Carey. 

"Started  back,"  replied  Cal  Mason,  busy  at  the  buck- 
board.  "Pass  the  rope  under  his  arms,  Tug,  an'  I'll 
tie  'em  to  the  back  of  the  seat." 

"Naw,"  objected  Tug,  "put  'em  both  on  the  floor. 
S'pose  their  feet  do  hang  over — what's  the  difference?" 

"They  ain't  room,  I  tell  yuh!"  declared  Cal  heatedly. 
"They's  only  room  for  Bill  Homan  on  the  floor.  Old 
Man's  gotta  sit  alongside  of  yuh.  Aw,  what  yuh  beefin' 
about?  He  ain't  bleedin'  even  a  li'l  bit!  Lemme  drive 
then.  I  can  drive  yore  hoss  better'n  you  anyhow,"  Cal 
added  with  consummate  tact. 


SCOTTY  MACKENZIE  69 

Tug  drove. 

On  the  ride  back  to  the  Bend,  Johnny  contrived  to 
manoeuvre  Scotty  to  the  tail  of  the  cavalcade. 

"Gotta  fix  my  cinches,"  Johnny  announced  suddenly 
and,  catching  Scotty's  eye,  motioned  rearward  with  his 
head. 

The  quick-witted  Scotty  halted  his  horse  as  Johnn}^  slid 
to  the  ground.  When  Johnny  swung  up  the  others  were 
three  hundred  yards  ahead.  Scotty  grinned  at  Johnny, 
and  Johnny  grinned  at  Soctty.  They  liked  each  other 
very  well,  these  two.  Johnny  knew  better  than  to  thank 
Scotty  for  coming  to  his  rescue.  He  merely  mentioned 
that  Scotty  had  picked  a  good  day  on  which  to  ride  to 
town.  Scotty  "guessed"  that  this  was  the  truth,  and  the 
subject  was  closed. 

"Yuh  wanna  hire  two  stray  men,  don't  yuh,  Scotty," 
Johnny  began  abruptly. 

"Who?  Me?  Two  stray  men?  What  yuh  talkin' 
about,  Johnny?  This  Territory  ain't  Texas." 

"Yeah,  but  yuh  want  two  stray  men  just  the  same. 
Yo're  losin'  a  lot  oJ  bosses  lately,  an'  yuh  don't  like  it 
nohow." 

"It's  shore  makin'  me  madder'n ,"  said  Scotty,  fall 
ing  into  the  spirit  of  the  occasion.  "What  else?" 

"An'  yuh  hire  me'n  Telescope." 

"Laguerre!" 

"Shore." 

"Telescope  Laguerre,"  chuckled  Scotty,  his  face  wrink 
ling  with  delight.  "I'll  shore  be  glad  to  see  Telescope 
again." 

"Yo're  hirin'  us  won't  cost  yuh  nothin',  but  nobody's 
gotta  know  that.  To  anybody  she's  forty  a  month  all 
reg'lar." 


70  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

"Shore.    G'on.    Don't  stop.    I  can  see  times  a-comin'." 

"Our  bein'  stray  men  thisaway  will  give  us  a  chance  to 
ride  the  range  so  careless  an*  so  free  without  folks  askin' 
questions.  They's  three  of  us.  While  two  is  ridin'  round 
the  other'll  get  a  job  in  the  Bend — at  the  stage  corral,  if 
he  can.  If  he  can't,  some'ers  else  where  the  hearin's 
good." 

"I'm  beginnin'  to  see,"  drawled  Scotty.  "I'm  shore 
beginnin'  to  see.  When  yuh  goin'  to  start  in?" 

"Right  where  them  two  fellahs  was  downed.  I'm  no 
trailer,  myself,  but  Telescope  is  shore  one  li'l  he-angel 
when  it  comes  to  readin'  sign,  an'  I'm  gamblin'  he  can 
find  out  somethin'  from  the  hoof-marks  of  the  bosses  them 
hold-ups  rode.  If  only  she  don't  rain." 

"She  won't,"  declared  Scotty.  "If  she  rains  inside  o' 
six  weeks,  I'll  eat  my  shirt.  Them  hoof-marks  is  there  to 
stay.  When  yuh  goin'  to  send  for  Telescope?" 

"Telescope  an'  Racey  Dawson  are  on  the  way  now. 
Telescope'll  drift  in  day  after  to-morrow  likely,  an'  Racey 
a  couple  o'  days  after." 

"Huh?     Day  after  to-morrow?" 

"Shore,  day  after  to-morrow." 

"Say,  how  long  you  been  plannin'  this  thing  anyhow?" 

"Since  the  stage  pulled  in  to  Farewell  after  the  Hogback 
hold-up  an'  Bill  Stahl  posted  rewards  for  them  bandits  at 
a  thousand  per.  The  Wells-Fargo  made  the  same  play. 
I  figure  she  beats  punchin'  cattle." 

"An'  yuh  come  north  special  for  that?"  Scotty's  eyes 
took  on  a  terrier-like  keenness. 

"Shore,  I  come  north  for  that,"  replied  Johnny.  "What 
do  yuh  guess?" 

"Seen  Dor' thy?"  was  Scotty's  apparently  irrelevant 
remark. 


SCOTTY  MACKENZIE  71 

"Yeah Say,  do  yuh  s'pose  I  come  all  the  way  here 

to  see  her?" 

"Why  not?"  yapped  Scotty  defensively.  "She's  one 
nice  li'l  gal,  an'  any  gent — any  gent,  I  tell  yuh,  Johnny — 
had  ought  to  be  proud  to  ride  from  hell  to  breakfast  and 
back  again  to  see  her." 

"I  dunno  as  my  hoss'd  stand  the  trip,"  doubted  Johnny. 

"Yuh  know  what  I  mean.  Yuh  know  plenty  well  what 
I  mean.  An'  I  don't  give  a  damn  what  yuh  say,  Johnny, 
I'm  bettin'  yuh  was  thinkin'  o'  Dor'thy  all  the  time  yuh 
was  plannin'  to  come  up  here  after  them  hold-ups.  Shore 
yuh  was,  an'  natural  too.  Hell  yes.  What  yuh  wigglin' 
round  in  the  saddle  for?" 

"  'Cause  you  make  me  sick!" 

"I'll  make  yuh  a  heap  sicker  soon.  Dor'thy's  one  nice 
gal." 

"Yuh've  done  said  that  twice." 

"Of  course,"  pursued  the  unheeding  Scotty,  "I  don't 
cotton  to  ladies  as  a  rule.  I've  knowed  several  one  time 
an'  another,  an'  they're  bad  medicine.  Yessir,  I've  had 
experience,  I  have,  an'  I've  been  gun-shy  of  'em  ever  since. 
But  Dor'thy  Burr  an'  her  ma  ain't  nothin'  like  the  ordinary 
run  of  female  women.  Them  two  are  reg'lar  shore-enough 
folks,  yuh  bet  yuh.  Why,  I  knowed  Dor'thy  when  she 
wasn't  knee-high  to  a  pack-rat  an'  said  'Gug-gug'  when  she 
wanted  to  play  with  yore  watch.  Busted  mine  three 
times,  she  did,  an'  throwed  it  in  the  stove  final. 

"The  first  time  she  ever  rode  a  boss  in  her  life  was  on 
my  saddle  with  her  li'l  legs  a-stickin'  straight  out  an* 
a-yellin'  to  make  the  hoss  go.  An'  look  at  her  now.  They 
ain't  a  better-lookin'  gal,  bar  none,  north  o'  Texas.  I  ask 
yuh,  is  they  ?  No,  they  ain't.  O*  course,  on  forty  a  month 
yuh  hadn't  really  ought  to  ask  her,  but  after  yuh've  hawg- 


72  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

tied  a  bandit  or  two  an'  got  the  money  then  fly  at  it. 
Shore.  Wish  I  was  twenty  year  younger.  I'd  show  yuh, 
yuh  bet  yuh." 

"Yuh'd  shore  be  welcome  to,"  grunted  Johnny.  "I 
ain't  out  to  get  married — not  yet  awhile.  An*  I'm  sur 
prised  at  yuh,  Scotty,  a  man  o'  yore  age,  talkin'  this  way." 

"Why,  yuh  pore  conceited  cow-wrastler!"  blazed  Scotty. 
"Yuh  don't  guess  I  meant  what  I  said  about  Dor'thy  an' 
you,  do  yuh?  I  was  funnin'  yuh.  If  yuh  had  any  sense 
yuh'd  see  it,  but  that's  just  the  way,  young  folks  nowadays 
ain't  got  the  brains  they  had  when  I  was  a  boy.  No,  sir> 
not  by  a  jugful  they  ain't,  an'  you  ain't  in  partic'lar, 
Johnny.  Not  but  what  y' ain't  a  right  good  feller.  I  like 
yuh  quite  a  lot.  I  dunno  why  exactly.  But  you  ain't  the 
man  for  Dor'thy  Burr.  She's  a  friend  o'  mine." 

"Ain't  I  a  friend  of  yores?"  demanded  Johnny,  some 
what  injured  as  to  his  feelings. 

"  Shore  y'are,"  admitted  Scotty.  "  But  this  is  different, 
a  heap  different.  Yuh  don't  shape  up  like  a  married  man, 
Johnny." 

"I'd  like  to  know  why  I  couldn't." 

"I  thought  yuh  said  yuh  wasn't  out  to  get  married." 

"I  mean  I'd  like  to  know  why  I  couldn't  if  I  wanted  to." 

"I  guess — maybe — yuh  could.  They  say  nothin's  im 
possible.  But  it  wouldn't  do.  No.  Not  a-tall  nohow. 
Just  you  forget  it  an'  think  o'  somethin'  else.  Besides, 
it  might  be  right  dangerous." 

"Dangerous?" 

"Dangerous." 

Scotty  wore  an  air  of  supreme  indifference.  He  began 
to  hum  a  little  song. 

"Nemmine  dronin'  no  tunes.  Whadda  yuh  mean  by 
'dangerous'?" 


SCOTTY  MACKENZIE  73 

"I  was  just  thinkin'  o'  Harry  Slay." 

"  Harry  Slay !  Him !  What's  he  got  to  do  with  Dorothy 
Burr?"  ' 

"Oh,  nothing  nothin'.  How's  Jack  Richie  makin' 
out?" 

"Nemmine  Jack  Richie  either.  He'll  keep  better'n  that 
blisterin'  tune.  What's  all  this  here  mystery  about  Dor 
othy  an'  Slay?" 

"It  ain't  no  mystery.  He  slimes  round  Dor' thy  all  the 
time.  Goes  ridin'  with  her  a  lot,  an'  most  every  week  the 
stage  freights  in  a  big  box  o'  candy  from  him  for  her — all 
the  way  from  St.  Paul,  too.  Why,  say,  he  evens  picks 
flowers  out  in  the  woods  for  her  /" 

Had  Slay  been  in  the  habit  of  constructing  bouquets  of 
rattlesnakes  Scotty's  tone  could  not  have  expressed  more 
horrified  disgust.  Johnny  was  disgusted,  too,  but  in  a 
different  way. 

"Who  is  this  man  Slay?"  he  demanded. 

"He  owns  the  Broken  Dollar  S'loon — runs  six  games  ip 
there.  I  thought  yuh  knew." 

"He's  new  since  I  was  here." 

"Yeah,  sifted  in  lee'n  two  year  ago,  bought  the  Savin' 
Grace  ofFRiley,  renamed  her  the  Broken  Dollar,  an'  waded 
into  business.  I'll  say  this  for  him:  he's  an  educated  gent. 
a  slayer  over  any  distance  with  the  women,  a  cold  proposi 
tion  with  the  men,  an'  I  ain't  got  no  more  use  for  him  thar 
I  have  for  a  toad.  Not  so  much.  Yuh  can  squash  a 
toad." 

"An'  he's  goin'  to  see  Dorothy?" 

"What  do  you  care?" 

"I  don't — only — only  it  don't  seem  right  somehow. 
Not  that  she's  anythin'  to  me  more'n  a  friend,  but  he's  a 
pup,  that  fellah." 


74  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

"Shore,  but  how  yuh  goin'  to  stop  it?  He's  acted 
real  decent — so  far.  An'  if  yuh  plug  him  or  somethin* 
Dor'thy  mightn't  like  it.  Yuh  can't  never  tell  about  a 
woman." 

"But  he  ain't  the  gent  to  be  hangin'  round  a  nice  girl 
like  that.  He's  got  a  bad  eye." 

"Two  of  'em,  an'  I  ask  yuh  again,  what  yuh  goin'  to  do? 
She's  a  free  country." 

"Yeh,  but — why  don't  yuh  talk  to  Mis'  Burr?" 

"An'  get  a  jawin'?     Do  I  look  like  a  fool?" 

"Sometimes,"  said  Johnny,  "but  y'  ain't  to  blame  for 
that.  I  think  it's  yore  complexion  or  somethin'.  Leave 
my  hoss  alone!  Quit  it  now!  We  was  talkin'  all  friendly 

about  Dorothy  an'  yuh  gotta  go  raisin'  around. 

What  are  we  goin'  to  do?" 

"We?" 

"Shore  we?" 

"An' do  what,  huh?" 

"Show  Mister  Slay  he  ain't  wanted." 

"Not  me,  Johnny.  I'm  shore  too  old  for  them  kind  o' 
fireworks.  It's  yore  play." 

"Seein'  as  nobody  else  wants  to  pick  up  a  hand,"  Johnny 
observed  with  sarcasm,  "I  guess  maybe  it  is." 

Scotty  said  nothing.  Having  sown  the  seed  he  was 
content  to  await  the  harvest. 

"Goin'  out  to-night?"  inquired  Johnny,  when  the  scat 
tered  lights  of  Paradise  Bend  winked  at  them  across  the 
night. 

"Guess  not,"  said  Scotty.  "Too  late.  We'll  go  to 
morrow." 

"I'll  be  out  later — with  Telescope,"  observed  Johnny. 
"Not  much  use  goin'  out  till  after  he  comes.  Besides,  we 
gotta  look  at  them  tracks." 


SCOTTY  MACKENZIE  75 

"Shore,"  concurred  Scotty,  grinning  into  the  darkness. 
"They's  all  kinds  o'  reasons  for  yuh  to  stay  in  the  Bend," 
he  added  under  his  breath. 

"Whatcha  say?"  Johnny  questioned  suspiciously. 

"Talkin'  to  the  hoss." 

From  the  windows  and  doorways  of  store,  saloon  and 
dance  hall,  flaring  fans  of  yellow  light  lay  across  the  side 
walks  and  stretched  with  diminishing  intensity  into  thedust 
of  the  street.  In  the  How  Come  You  So  Dance  Hall  two 
fiddlers  were  dispensing  the  heartsome  strains  of  "Old  Dan 
Tucker"  and  heavy  boots  and  light  slippers  were  scuffling 
and  sliding  over  the  floor.  An  intoxicated  gentleman  was 
roaring  the  "Days  of  Forty-Nine"  in  the  Three  Card,  and 
from  the  Jacks  Up  came  the  merry  cries  of  the  bartender 
and  the  proprietor  as  they  strove  to  eject  an  unwelcome 
customer. 

"Good  li'l  town,"  was  Scotty' s  comment. 

"All  o'  that,"  said  Johnny,  watching  with  admiring  in 
terest  the  unwelcome  customer  issue  from  the  Jacks  Up, 
skitter  across  the  sidewalk,  and  strike  the  street  on  the 
back  on  his  neck. 

"Lookit,  lookit!"  he  urged  delightedly,  prodding  Scotty. 

"Yeah,  that's  Lotta  Wallace,"  said  Scotty,  who  was 
looking  in  the  opposite  direction.  "Kind  o'  fancy,  ain't 
she?" 

"Huh?  Who?"  puzzled  Johnny,  thinking  of  the  un 
welcome  customer. 

"She'll  strike  the  light  again  in  a  shake,"  Scotty  con 
tinued  to  stare  across  the  street,  and  Johnny,  following 
with  his  eyes,  got  the  range  in  time  to  see  a  woman  step 
into  the  light  from  the  doorway  of  the  Golden  Rule — a 
woman  of  dark  and  brilliant  beauty,  whose  alluring  black 
gown  revealed  and  emphasized  the  charm  of  throat  and 


76  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

shoulders,  shoulders  that  should  have  been  covered  by  the 
white  shawl  she  trailed  over  a  bare  and  perfect  forearm. 

Johnny  watched  the  slim  figure  shuttling  through  the 
light  and  darkness  of  the  street  till  it  disappeared  within 
the  entrance  of  the  Broken  Dollar. 

"Lookout?"  was  his  question. 

"Sometimes,"  Scotty  told  him.  "But  mostly  she  spins 
the  wheel.  She's  Slay's  sister,  Mis'  Lotta  Wallace,  an'  a 
widow — she  says.  Yuh  can't  tell,  it  might  be  true.  Me, 
I  always  like  to  look  at  her.  She  makes  me  think  o'  when 
I  was  a  barefoot  kid  back  East  in  MacPherson  an'  the  cir 
cus  come  to  town  an'  for  the  first  time  in  my  life  I  seen  a 
leopard.  Yessir,  it's  shore  amazin'  how  Mis'  Wallace 
reminds  me  o'  that  leopard." 

"Did  she  come  here  with  Slay?" 

"Yep — all  the  way  from  Chicago — if  yuh  believe  what 
they  say.  Me  personal  I  got  a  idea  they're  a  long  time 
from  Lake  Michigan — a  long,  long  time.  They  was  noth- 
in*  tenderfooty  about  either  of  Jem  when  they  come. 
Yessir,  a  gent  don't  learn  to  pull  a  gun  like  Slay  can  pull 
her,  back  East.  It  ain't  a  city  trick.  An'  that  Lotta  gal 
was  born  on  a  hoss. 

"Johnny,  I  seen  her  ride  Dan  Smith's  pitcher  one  day. 
Which  that  wall-eyed  cayuse  gave  her  all  he  knowed  from 
sun-fishin'  to  changin'  ends  an'  djuh  think  she  pulled 
leather?  Nary  a  pull.  She  stuck  to  him  like  grim  death 
to  a  dead  nigger  an'  loped  him  through  town  at  the  finish 
like  nothin'  had  happened.  But  just  the  same,"  he  added 
hastily,  "she  reminds  me  o'  that  leopard." 

"  Yeah,"  said  Johnny,  thinking  of  something  else.  "  An* 
so  Slay's  been  here  about  two  years,  huh  ?  W7as  it  before 
or  after  he  come  that  they  had  the  first  hold-up?" 

"Aw,  yo're  ropin'  at  the  wrong  cow,  Johnny!"  declared 


SCOTTY  MACKENZIE  77 

Scotty.  "I  don't  like  Harry  a-tall,  but  I'll  say  he  ain't 
in  them  hold-ups.  Why,  every  single  hold-up  exceptin' 
this  last  one  he's  been  here  in  town.  I  know  it,  'cause  I 
thought  o'  him  that  way  once,  an*  I  took  the  trouble  to 
find  out.  Whoever  they  are,  Harry  Slay  ain't  one  of 
'em.  Le's  cross  over,  Johnny.  Yo're  stayin'  at  the  hotel 
with  me  to-night." 


CHAPTER  VIII 
DOROTHY  BURR 

DOROTHY  BURR  was  lining  pie-pans  when  Johnny 
Ramsay  stuck  his  head  through  the  kitchen  door 
way. 

"You're  a  nice  one/'  was  her  response  to  his  greeting. 
"Here  I  waited  up  half  the  night  expecting  you'd  come  and 
tell  me  everything  was  all  right,  and  you  didn't.  And  I 
had  to  hear  it  all  from  Mis'  Mace  this  morning.  Lot  of 
consideration  you  have  for  your  friends,  I  must  say." 

She  stared  at  him  with  resentful  eyes. 

"But,  ma'am,"  he  protested,  reddening  slightly  at  her 
naive  announcement,  "it  was  late  when  we  rode  in — almost 
midnight." 

"I  sat  up  till  one." 

"If  I'd  only  knowed!  But  not  knowin',  I  done  what  I 
thought  was  best.  I  just  brought  yore  hoss  back.  He's  in 
the  corral  now.  I'm  shore  obliged  to  yuh  for  lendin'  him 
to  me,  an'  for  takin'  care  o'  mine  for  me.  Which  that  li'l 
red  hoss  was  shore  dead-beat." 

"Dead-beat!"  She  smiled  whimsically  at  the  recollec 
tion.  "I  guess  he  was.  The  poor  chap  tried  to  lie  down 
twice  between  Main  Street  and  here.  He's  all  right  now. 
He  was  trying  to  kick  Twinkles  when  I  watered  them  this 
morning." 

Dorothy  pushed  back  a  falling  lock  of  brown  hair  with 
a  floury  hand,  and  reached  for  the  bowl  of  filling.  She  had 

78 


DOROTHY  BURR  79 

a  dab  of  flour  on  the  bridge  of  her  pretty  nose,  her  waist 
was  open  at  the  neck,  and  her  rolled-up  sleeves  made  man 
ifest  the  dimples  in  her  attractive  elbows.  She  looked  a 
very  delectable  young  person,  as  she  stood  there,  her 
smooth,  cheeks  pink  with  the  heat  of  the  kitchen. 

Johnny  sat  down  on  the  door-sill,  braced  his  toes  against 
the  jamb,  and  built  himself  the  inevitable  cigarette.  He 
stared  lazily  across  his  humped  knees  at  the  lady.  He 
did  not  find  her  in  the  least  hard  to  look  at.  She  was  hand 
somer  than  she  used  to  be,  he  told  himself.  No  two  ways 
about  it,  she  certainly  filled  a  fellow's  eye. 

"What's  that?"  asked  she,  raising  dark  eyes  to  his. 

"I — I  didn't  say  nothin',"  denied  Johnny,  going  red  to 
the  ears.  "She — she's  a  nice  day." 

"I  beg  your  pardon.  I  thought  you  said  something 
about  eyes." 

"Who?     Me?     Nun-no,  ma'am." 

"All  right."     Indifferently. 

"Come  to  think  of  it,  maybe  now  I  did  say  somethin* 
about  eyes,"  he  observed,  imbued  with  sudden  daring. 
"  I  was  just  thinkin'  how  yore  eyes  are  a  plumb  dark  brown, 
almost  black,  an'  yore  eyebrows  the  same,  an'  yore  hair 
is  a  li'l  lighter,  an'  yet  they  all  kind  o'  match." 

She  gazed  at  him  with  parted  lips,  the  aforesaid  almost 
black  eyebrows  inquiringly  arched.  Then  she  smiled 
adorably  and  spooned  up  some  more  filling. 

"The  wonders  of  nature,"  she  twinkled  at  him.  "Keep 
your  eyes  open  and  you'll  learn  something  new  every  day. 
You  never  used  to  be  so  observant." 

"My  eyesight's  gettin'  better,"  was  his  dry  comment. 

"I  know,"  she  said,  leveling  the  spoon  at  him,  "you've 
been  reading  novels.  You're  getting  romantic.  You  stop 
it,  do  you  hear?  Eyebrows  and  eyes  and  hair,  indeed!" 


8o  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

She  sniffed  quite  audibly. 

"  But  they  look  so  kind  o' — kind  o'  pretty,"  he  protested. 
"I  was  just  tellin'  yuh.  Why,  ma'am,  even  that  smear  o' 
flour  on  yore  nose  looks  nice." 

"Never  mind  about  my  nose,"  said  she,  rubbing  the 
feature  in  question  vigorously  with  the  corner  of  her  apron. 
"Of  course  I  know  I  have  a  certain  element  of  charm,  as  it 
were.  My  perfectly  good  mirror  tells  me  that.  But  it 
isn't  at  all  necessary  for  you  to  tell  me  about  it.  I  don't 
like  it,  and  I  won't  have  it." 

"Won't  yuh?" 

"No." 

"Why?" 

"Darn  the  man!  I  declare,  when  it  comes  to  fool  ques 
tions  you're  worse  than  a  brat!  What  you  need  is  a  little 
exercise,  and  what  I  need  is  some  fresh  water.  The  pail's 
in  that  corner.  Do  you  think  you  can  find  the  well  with 
out  being  led  to  it  by  the  hand?" 

"I  know  I  can't,"  he  declared  promptly.  "  Besides,  yuh 
need  some  fresh  air.  This  kitchen's  kind  o'  hot.  C'mon 
out." 

"After.  Get  a  move  on  with  that  water,  and  stop  your 
nonsense." 

When  Johnny  had  gone,  Dorothy  sat  looking  through 
the  open  window  at  the  green  and  distant  Government 
Hills.  There  was  a  tender  little  smile  on  her  lips.  At  the 
sound  of  his  returning  step  she  went  on  with  her  pie-making. 

"Where's  yore  ma  ? "  he  asked,  suddenly  bethinking  him 
self  of  Mrs.  Burr  as  he  set  the  full  pail  in  the  corner. 

"She's  over  at  Mis'  Acker's  on  Jack  Creek." 

"I  thought  you  said  yuh  done  sent  Sammy  Barnes  for 
her,"  said  he,  recollecting  what  Dorothy  had  told  the  mar 
shal  the  previous  afternoon. 


DOROTHY  BURR  81 

Dorothy  giggled. 

"I  sort  of  told  a  fib,"  she  confessed.  "I  didn't  really 
send  for  ma.  You  see,  I  knew  Scotty  and  some  of  his 
boys  would  be  fencing  in  that  quicksand  at  Wagon  Slue 
on  the  Dogsoldier  yesterday,  so  I  sent  Sammy  for  Scotty 
instead.  But  I  thought  Dan  Smith  and  the  rest  of  that 
mob  had  better  keep  right  on  believing  as  long  as  possible 
that  they  had  nearly  two  hours  in  which  to  try  you  and— 
and — instead  of  the  thirty  minutes  or  so  necessary  for  the 
ride  to  Wagon  Slue  and  back." 

"I  know  what  yore  'an' — an"  means,"  said  he  soberly. 
"They  was  shore  out  to  hang  me.  They'd  'a'  done  it,  if 
it  hadn't  been  for  you." 

"Nonsense!"  she  exclaimed,  sliding  the  pies  into  the 
oven  and  kicking  the  door  shut.  "Jim  Mace  and  Soapy 
were  there.  I  didn't  really  do  anything." 

"I'm  thinkin'  different,"  he  told  her  earnestly,  took  a 
step  toward  her,  and  paused,  overcome  by  sudden  shyness. 
"Cue — call  me  Johnny,  will  yuh?" 

Dorothy  deliberately  turned  her  back  on  him  and  crossed 
the  room  to  the  tiny  mirror  hanging  beside  the  china-closet. 
Here  she  busied  herself  in  pulling  and  patting  her  coiffure 
into  shape.  Head  cocked  on  one  side,  she  surveyed  the 
effect. 

Johnny  scraped  an  uncomfortable  foot.  He  thought  he 
had  made  her  angry,  and  mentally  called  himself  a  fool. 
Yet  at  the  time,  his  request  seemed  a  natural  one  to  make. 

Dorothy  turned,  still  without  looking  at  him,  walked  to 
the  table,  reached  for  a  can  of  peas  and  the  can-opener, 
and  proceeded  to  travel  round  the  top  of  the  can.  When 
the  peas  had  been  neatly  slid  into  a  saucepan  and  the  can 
thrown  out  the  lady  fixed  Johnny  with  a  cool  and  tantaliz 
ing  eye.  The  young  man  was  now  wishing  himself  else- 


82  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

where.  But  to  retire  gracefully  was  beyond  his  powers. 
He  was  perspiring  a  little.  Dorothy  smiled  the  peculiar 
smile  of  the  entomologist  about  to  impale  a  rare  insect  on  a 
large  pin. 

"How  long  have  you  known  me?"  she  inquired  coldly. 

"Three — three  years,"  stuttered  Johnny. 

"I  think  not,"  she  contradicted.  "You  haven't  seen  me 
for  at  least  two  years." 

"  But  the  year  before  I  seen  quite  a  lot  of  yuh,"  defended 
Johnny. 

"Three  times,"  enumerated  she  with  increasing  chilli 
ness  of  demeanour. 

"It  was  more'n  that,"  he  insisted. 

"It  was  not.  Three  times  exactly — no  more,  no  less. 
And  I  don't  believe  you  said  a  dozen  words  to  me  during 
any  of  the  three  times." 

"Oh,  ma'am,  yo're  mistaken!"  Johnny's  tone  was 
piteously  horror-stricken. 

Her  lips  twitched. 

"I  am  not  mistaken,"  she  insisted.  "I  am  never  mis 
taken — in  anything  I  may  do.  Under  the  circumstances, 
having  known  me  such  a  short  time  and  all  that,  you  know, 
don't  you  really  think  it's  the  least  bit  nervy  to  ask  per 
mission  to  call  me  by  my  first  name?" 

"It  would  be  worse  if  I  called  yuh  that  without  askin* 
yuh,"  said  he  matte r-of-factly. 

"Answer  my  question?"     The  dark  eyes  held  him. 

"  Y-yes,  ma'am,  o'  course  it  would,"  he  affirmed  hastily. 
"  I'm  sorry.  I  didn't  mean — I  guess  I'll  go  now." 

"Why  not  wait  a  moment?     I  haven't  quite  finished." 

"You've  made  it  more'n  plain,  ma'am." 

Nevertheless  Johnny  halted  on  his  way  to  the  door. 

"Have  I,  Mister  Blind  Man?     I  was  just  about  to  say 


DOROTHY  BURR  83 

that  I  think  it  would  be  very  nice  indeed  to  call  you 
'Johnny'.  I've  been  wondering  how  soon  you'd  ask  me." 

"You  have!  Then  what  did  yuh  make  all  that  row 
for?" 

"Just  to  tease  you.  You're  so  easily  teased — even  for 
a  boy." 

"Boy!  "he  frowned. 

"Oh,  very  well,  Mister  Methuselah.     How's  that?" 

"Well,  I  ain't  no  gran'pa,  but  I  ain't  a  kid  neither.  I've 
been  roamin'  up  an'  down  this  vale  o'  tears  a  long,  long 
time." 

"My,  what  a  lot  you  must  know!"  She  stared  at  him, 
round-eyed. 

"Aw,  leave  me  alone,"  he  begged.  "I  can't  talk  like 
you  can,  an'  yuh  know  it.  Remember,  I'm  just  a  young 
fellah  tryin'  hard  to  get  along.  I  may  make  mistakes  now 
an'  later,  but  outside  o'  that,  my  heart  beats  reg'lar  all 
same  alarm-clock." 

"I  know,"  she  said  seriously,  "in  some  ways  you're 
almost  human.  You  may  call  me  Dorothy,  if  you  like." 

"Thanks,"  he  observed  drily.  "I  do  like  Dorothy. 
Has  kind  of  a  smooth  sound,  ain't  it?  Yessir,  I  shore 
always  did  like  that  name  Dorothy.  'Spect  I'll  be  usin' 
it  quite  a  lot  from  now  on." 

"Take  care  you  don't  strain  your  throat,"  she  answered 
solemnly,  then  promptly  dazzled  him  with  a  radiant  smile. 
"Reach  me  down  a  can  of  tomatoes  from  the  top  shelf, 
will  you — Johnny?" 

"All  right,  Dorothy." 

There  was  more  than  joy  in  his  grin  as  he  brought  her 
the  tomatoes. 

"A  whole  can  o'  tomatters!"  the  disapproving  voice  of 
Scotty  Mackenzie  exclaimed  from  the  doorway.  "An  a 


84  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

whole  can  o'  peas!  An  a  skillet  full  o'  hashed  Hogans 
an'  ham!  I  ain't  namin'  no  names,  but  they's  such  a 
thing  as  havin'  a  healthy  appetite  an'  they's  such  a  thing 
as  bein'  a  hawg.  Not  meanin'  nothin'  or  nobody  in  par- 
tic'lar,  o'  course." 

"Of  course  not,  old-timer,  we  understand  perfectly," 
Dorothy  assured  him.  "You're  merely  shedding  sunshine 
in  your  own  sweet  way.  Johnny,  while  you're  setting  a 
place  for  yourself  at  the  table  set  another  for  the  old  gentle 
man  with  the  whiskers." 

"I  didn't  know  I  was  a-goin'  to  stay?"  Johnny  strove 
to  inject  the  correct  degree  of  surprise  into  his  tone. 

"Yuh  didn't,  huh?"  cackled  Scotty.  "That's  a  good 
one,  that  is.  Just  as  if  yuh  haven't  been  sittin'  round  all 
mornin'  with  yore  tongue  hangin'  out  an'  yore  mouth  open 
a-honin'  for  an  invite.  Can't  fool  me.  I  know." 

"Is  that  so?"  snarled  Johnny.  "An'  if  I  was  she's  none 
o'  yore  business." 

"You  bet  she's  my  business.  First  thing  I  know  one 
o'  you  young  fellers  '11  be  stealin'  my  gal  away,  an'  I  ain't 
a-goin'  to  let  nothin'  like  that  happen,  not  while  I  have  my 
health,  yuh  bet  yuh.  What  a  fine  an'  dandy  colour  yuh 
got  this  mornin',  Dor' thy.  I  just  noticed  it." 

The  terrible  old  man  smirked  shamelessly  at  the  two 
of  them,  straddled  a  chair  and  sailed  his  hat  into  a  far 
corner. 

"Yeah,  yo're  shore  as  nice-lookin'  as  a  li'l  red  wagon 
with  that  colour  an'  all,"  he  remarked  after  a  space  devoted 
to  the  rolling  of  a  cigarette. 

"You  leave  my  colour  alone,"  Dorothy  told  him,  forking 
over  the  sizzling  ham,  "or  I  won't  feed  you." 

"Can't  scare  me  that  way,"  declared  Scotty  tranquilly. 
"Yuh  know  I  never  eat  nothin'  here.  I  don't  dast.  If  I 


DOROTHY  BURR  85 

did,  I  wouldn't  have  no  appetite  for  ranch  chuck,  an'  that's 
whatever." 

"I  merely  wished  to  be  polite,"  sniffed  disdainful  Dor 
othy. 

"That's  all  right.  I  don't  mind.  Be  as  polite  as  yuh 
like.  Johnny,  while  Dor'thy  is  wrastlin'  that  ham  round 
the  pan  s'pose  you'n  me  traipse  over  to  the  corral.  I 
wanna  show  yuh  somethin'  on  my  saddle." 

At  that  particular  moment,  a  saddle  was  not  Johnny's 
idea  of  something  to  look  at.  He  greatly  preferred  re 
maining  with  Dorothy.  He  accompanied  Scotty  in  si 
lence. 

"Yo're  a  fine  detective,"  remarked  Scotty,  as  they  ap 
proached  the  Burr  corral. 

"Who  said  I  was?"  yapped  Johnny. 

"Not  me,"  Scotty  told  him.  "I  always  tell  the  truth. 
There,  there,  crack  yore  face  an'  smile.  Yuh  look  so 
gloomersome  yuh  hurt  my  feelin's." 

"Damn  yore  feelin's.  What  yuh  wanna  come  mussin' 
round  here  for  makin'  fool  remarks?  She  don't  like  'em." 

"Do  you?" 

"No,  I  don't." 

"All  right,  all  right,  I  was  just  wonderin'.  It  shore 
beats  all  how  a  well-meanin'  gent  gets  tromped  on  now 
adays.  It  wasn't  like  that  when  I  was  a  kid  back  East  in 
Macpherson.  No  sirree,  a  pore  ol'  feller  like  me  was  re 
spected  in  them  days." 

Scotty  gurgled  out  a  sob  and  affected  to  wipe  away  a 
tear. 

"Yuh  got  somethin'  to  say,"  accused  Johnny.  "Y* al 
ways  have  when  y'act  more  like  a  fool  than  usual.  Spit 
her  out." 

"Spit    her   out!"    groaned    Scotty.     "Such    language! 


86  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

An*  my  Johnny  raised  a  Christian!  Djuh  know  where 
you'll  go  when  yuh  die,  huh?  You'll  go  to  hell,  that's 
where  yuh'll  go.  Yessir,  yuh'll  fry.  An'  it'll  be  yore  own 
fault.  Gawd  knows  I've  warned  yuh  till  my  neck's  as 
dry  as  a  covered  bridge." 

"Stop  it!"  commanded  Johnny.  "What  yuh  goin'  to 
say?" 

"Yuh  don't  deserve  to  hear  me  say  it.  But  me,  I'm  a 
forgivin'  sport.  Yessir,  yuh  won't  find  a  more  forgivin', 
Gawd-fearin'  individual  in  ten  days'  ride.  Look,  darlin', 
look  at  this." 

Scotty  Mackenzie  fished  something  from  the  staple 
pocket  on  his  cantle  and  held  it  toward  Johnny.  The  latter 
took  it  wonderingly.  "It"  had  once  been  a  cheap  silver 
watch.  Now  it  was  smashed  beyond  all  hope  of  repair. 
It  lay  in  Johnny's  palm,  a  battered  glassless  case,  sprouting 
a  tangle  of  springs  and  cogwheels. 

"Pretty  li'l  thing,"  commented  Scotty. 

"What's  it  for?"  asked  the  puzzled  Johnny. 

"It  ain't  to  keep  time,  but  I  thought  maybe  it  might 
come  in  handy  for  yuh.  I  found  it  this  mornin'  right  at 
the  edge  o'  that  quicksand  I'm  fencin'  in  at  Wagon  Slue." 

"Well?" 

"Turn  her  over." 

Johnny  obeyed.  On  the  back  of  the  case  had  been 
rudely  scratched  the  initials  "W.  H." 

"Bill  Roman's  initials,"  Scotty  said  quietly.  "She's 
Bill's  watch.  I  seen  him  look  at  her  more'n  once." 

"An'  yuh  found  it  right  at  the  edge  o'  the  quicksand?" 

"Shore,  this  mornin'." 

"Did  any  o'  yore  outfit  see  it?" 

"Nary  a  one.  I  was  there  three  minutes  ahead  of  'em. 
An'  here  this  thing  lay.  An'  they  wasn't  a  hoofmark  or 


DOROTHY  BURR  87 

heelmark  within  forty  feet.  I'm  tellin'  yuh,  Johnny,  that 
this  timepiece  was  throwed  from  across  the  river  some  time 
durin*  the  night.  I  know  she  was  throwed  'cause  she'd 
dug  into  the  ground  where  she  landed  an'  they  was  the 
mark  o'  how  she'd  rolled  a  li'l  bit  after  landin'.  An'  I 
know  she  was  throwed  durin'  the  night  'cause  if  she'd  been 
daylight  the  gent  who  slung  her  would -never  have  over- 
th rowed  an'  missed  the  quicksand — shore.  'Course  he 
was  tryin'  to  sink  the  watch  in  the  quicksand.  What 
else?" 

"I  guess  yo're  right,"  concurred  Johnny.  "This  watch 
shore  goes  to  show  the  road  agents  live  in  town  or  near  it." 

"Shore  does,"  said  Scotty  Mackenzie. 


CHAPTER  IX 
THE  OTHER  WOMAN 

JOHNNY  spent  the  afternoon  with  the  hospitable 
Dorothy.  The  lady,  as  she  tidily  darned  her  father's 
socks,  did  not  find  Johnny  an  inspiring  companion. 

She  was  neither  accustomed  to  silence  nor  monosylla 
bic  replies.  She  did  not  realize  that  her  visitor  was  deep 
in  a  mathematical  problem  and  making  an  exceedingly 
boggy  ford  of  it.  One  and  one  will  simply  not  make  four 
no  matter  how  many  times  you  add  or  multiply  them 
together.  But  Johnny  was  a  persistent  soul.  He  kept 
right  on  juggling  Bill  Homan's  watch  and  his  own  suspi 
cions  till  supper-time  arrived  and  brought  not  the  remotest 
hint  of  a  satisfactory  answer.  Whereupon  Johnny  put  on 
his  hat,  and  departed  hotelward — to  see  a  man. 

"Yeah,  he's  a  great  friend  o'  mine,"  he  told  £)orothy. 
"I'd  like  to  stay  to  supper,  honest  I  would,  but  I  got  my 
own  sinful  pride,  an'  moochin'  one  meal  a  day  off  a  lady 
is  my  limit.  G'by." 

Dorothy  was  left  sputtering  indignantly. 

After  supper,  and  a  most  indifferent  meal  it  was  in 
comparison  with  his  dinner,  he  went  over  to  Ragsdale's 
store  and  spent  a  tobacco-laden  hour  gossiping  with  Soapy. 
Jim  Mace  came  in  and  the  hour  lengthened  to  two,  and 
darkness  fell,  and  it  was  night. 

About  ten  o'clock  Johnny  stood  up  on  his  feet  and  yawned 
and  stretched  his  long  arms  and  legs  till  they  cracked. 


THE  OTHER  WOMAN  89 

"I  guess  I'll  kind  o'  take  a  look  'round  town,"  he  ob 
served. 

"Yeah,"  said  Jim  Mace,  his  eye  lighting.  "Is  that  a 
saloon  across  the  street,  or  do  my  eyes  deceive  me?" 

"You,  Buster!"  bawled  Ragsdale,  "c'min  here  an'  take 
the  store.  I  gotta  go  out  on  a  li'l  business." 

Johnny's  chief  wish  at  that  moment  was  to  be  about  his 
own  business.  But  his  two  friends  did  not  seek  to  further 
that  wish.  Their  earnest  desire  was  to  make  it  a  large 
evening.  To  which  end  they  hung  Johnny  and  themselves 
over  the  bar  of  the  Three  Card  and  invited  all  and  sundry 
to  join  them. 

Johnny  took  a  small  part  of  one  drink,  after  which,  by 
the  exercise  of  some  strategy  and  all  his  natural  agility,  he 
contrived  to  escape  through  a  rear  window. 

Standing  well  back  and  to  one  side  of  the  splayed  light 
from  the  window,  Johnny  heard  Soapy  and  Jim  call  on 
him  by  name,  and  finally  leave  hurriedly  by  the  front  door. 

"Let  'em  hunt,"  he  grinned.     "Me,  I  got  business." 

He  turned  and  looked  along  the  irregular  line  of  rear 
elevations.  There  was  the  Golden  Rule — those  three 
small  glowing  windows.  Beyond  it  the  houses  were  dark 
— private  residences.  Beyond  these  again  was  a  dim  light 
— the  stage  station.  The  dark  bulk  adjoining  the  stage 
station  was,  he  knew,  the  rear  of  the  Broken  Dollar  saloon 
and  gambling-joint.  There  were  six  windows  and  a  door 
way  in  the  rear  wall  of  the  Broken  Dollar's  back  room,  but 
all  were  dark. 

"Slay's  shore  economical  o'  light  in  that  back  room," 
was  Johnny's  idle  comment,  as  he  started  toward  the  stage- 
company's  corrals. 

Johnny's  objective  was  the  Broken  Dollar,  which  palace 
of  chance  he  intended  to  surreptitiously  approach  from 


90  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

the  other  end  of  Main  Street  in  order  that  his  friends  might 
not  see  him  enter.  For,  should  they  see  him,  they  would 
undoubtedly  join  him  for  his  better  protection.  And 
Johnny  wished  to  study  his  enemy  unhampered  by  any 
one.  That  Slay  was  his  most  vindictive  enemy  was  cer 
tain. 

Why?  Johnny  could  not  understand  why,  and  he  in 
tended  to  know  why.  That  there  was  a  certain  element  of 
risk  attached  to  such  close-range  observation  was  true. 
But  Johnny  held  to  the  cheerful  opinion  that  hostilities 
would  be  riskier  for  Slay  than  for  himself.  As  has  been 
stated,  Johnny  was  no  marvel  on  the  draw,  but  he  pos 
sessed  the  ability  to  shoot  accurately  from  the  hip  and 
through  the  bottom  of  his  holster. 

Johnny,  skirting  the  rear  of  the  stage  company's  two 
corrals,  turned  the  corner  of  the  second  enclosure  and  fell 
over  the  projecting  tongue  of  a  tiltless  freight  wagon. 
He  arose,  swearing  softly  and  rubbing  barked  shins.  His 
hat  had  fallen  off.  He  felt  about  for  it  in  the  darkness, 
and  swore  some  more.  He  found  it,  and  straightened  just 
as  the  six  windows  in  the  bark  room  of  the  Broken  Dollar 
sprang  into  dusty  radiance  and  a  line  of  light  showed 
yellowy  at  the  bottom  of  the  door. 

"That  door  always  did  hang  slanchways,"  observed 
Johnny,  and  thoughtfully  edged  behind  the  freight- wagon. 

The  door  opened.  For  an  instant  the  form  of  a  woman 
was  silhouetted  against  the  light  within,  then  the  door 
closed  behind  her. 

From  the  freight  wagon  to  the  Broken  Dollar  was  not 
more  than  seventy  yards.  Johnny  heard  the  tink  of  a 
kicked  tin  can.  A  high  heel  clicked  on  a  flat  stone.  A 
triangular  splotch  of  white,  gliding  toward  the  freight 
wagon,  gradually  took  shape  in  the  darkness.  The  white 


THE  OTHER  WOMAN  91 

splotch  reached  the  hind  wheels,  and  Johnny  heard  the 
pleasant  whisper  of  silk.  Noiselessly,  Johnny  scuttled 
to  the  safer  shelter  of  the  corral  stockade.  Body  flattened 
against  the  posts,  he  waited. 

The  white  splotch  appeared  at  the  fore  wheels  of  the 
freight-wagon,  and  bobbed  upward  as  the  woman  swung 
herself  into  the  driver's  seat. 

Followed  then  the  scratch  of  a  drawn  match.  Johnny 
stared.  The  woman  was  lighting  a  cigarette.  The  puls 
ing  flame  revealed  the  face  of  Slay's  sister,  Mrs.  Lotta 
Wallace. 

At  this  close  range  her  extreme  beauty  was  more  than 
ever  apparent.  The  black  hair  growing  low  in  a  widow's 
peak  on  the  forehead,  the  finely  arched  eyebrows,  the 
long  and  curving  eyelashes,  the  straight  nose,  the  wide, 
full-lipped  mouth,  and  the  firm  and  pointed  chin  above 
the  round,  smooth  throat  and  lovely  shoulders,  were  in 
dividually  sufficiently  striking.  In  combination  with 
each  other  the  effect  was  bewildering.  Yet  Johnny  was 
left  cold.  He  remembered  Scotty's  leopard  and  became 
colder. 

The  situation  was  becoming  impossible.  The  spark 
that  was  Mrs.  Wallace's  cigarette  was  not  twenty  feet 
distant.  At  any  moment  the  lady  might  climb  down, 
walk  along  the  stockade  and  discover  him.  Naturally, 
she  would  think  he  was  spying  on  her,  and  to  be  suspected 
of  that  by  such  an  unknown  quantity  as  Slay's  sister  was 
unthinkable.  Why  hadn't  he  kept  on  going  along  the 
stockade  when  he  had  the  opportunity?  Scotty  was 
right.  He  was  a  fine  detective,  making  mistakes  this  way. 
Johnny  sweated  clammily  and  breathed  as  little  as  possi 
ble. 

Suddenly  he  saw  Mrs.  Wallace's  cigarette  describe  a 


92  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

firefly  arc  in  the  air  and  strike  the  ground  in  a  sputter  of 
sparks.  There  was  no  sound  of  a  movement  on  the  driver's 
seat.  Wasn't  the  woman  ever  coming  down? 

A  long  minute's  silence,  then  a  whisper: 

"My  God,  what  a  life!" 

The  exclamatory  sentence  was  followed  by  a  pro 
nounced  sniffle,  then  more  sniffles,  and  finally  choky  little 
sobs.  It  was  evident  that  Mrs.  Wallace  was  striving  to 
fight  down  her  emotion.  But  her  grief  was  too  great  to  be 
stifled  easily. 

"I  wish  I  were  dead!"  she  moaned,  and  began  to  cry 
quietly  and  steadily. 

Johnny,  hating  himself  acutely,  began  to  itch  between 
the  shoulders.  The  itch  wore  itself  out  after  centuries  of 
torture  and  a  cramp  fastened  sullenly  on  the  muscles  of  his 
left  foot.  Something  alive  and  many-legged  fell  off  the 
stockade  and  landed  on  his  shoulder.  The  something 
crawled  along  his  shoulder  to  his  neck  and  tickled  his  ear. 

With  infinite  caution  he  raised  a  nervous  hand,  removed 
a  night-riding  spider  and  endeavoured  to  drop  the  loath 
some  thing  at  a  distance.  With  the  perversity  of  vermin 
it  clung  whole-heartedly  to  his  finger,  and  he  was  forced  to 
slat  it  ofF  against  a  post  of  the  stockade,  detaching  in  the 
process  a  loose  piece  of  dry  bark.  The  bark  fell  with  a 
rustle.  Johnny  caught  his  breath,  and  tensed  his  muscles 
for  a  flying  start.  But  the  sound  of  weeping  abated  not. 

Johnny  took  heart  of  hope  and  a  long  breath.  The 
taking  of  the  latter  was  injudicious.  For  many  months 
dust  of  the  corral,  stirred  into  action  by  the  hoofs  of  the 
stage-horses,  had  been  sifting  and  settling  behind  that 
loose  piece  of  bark.  The  fall  thereof  released  an  atomic 
cloud  that,  at  the  intake  of  the  long  breath,  promptly 
smote  the  sensitive  membrane  of  Johnny's  nostrils. 


THE  OTHER  WOMAN  93 

Johnny  gritted  his  teeth,  violently  rubbed  his  nose  and 
otherwise  by  main  strength  and  a  robust  will  contrived 
to  suffocate  the  sneeze  before  it  was  born.  He  almost 
strangled  in  the  effort,  and  was  left  with  tear-wet  eyes  and 
throbbing  temples.  But  he  had  made  not  the  slightest 
sound.  And  Mrs.  Wallace  wept  on  forlornly. 

Johnny's  gambling  spirit  urged  him  to  take  a  chance 
on  departure.  Between  spiders  and  itchings  and  incipient 
sneezes  the  locality  was  fast  losing  its  charm.  But  knowl 
edge  of  the  many  tin  cans  held  him  back.  There  was  an 
ancient  cast-off  stove  somewhere  about,  too.  If  he  should 
fall  over  that! 

Centuries  became  eons,  and  eons  became  eternity  before 
there  was  an  appreciable  lessening  of  that  distressful  sob 
bing  on  the  wagon-seat.  Johnny's  first-formed  estimation 
of  Mrs.  Wallace  had  been  gradually  altering.  By  the 
time  her  sobs  gave  way  to  long-drawn  gasping  breaths  his 
opinion  utterly  opposed  that  of  Scotty.  He  could  not 
understand  how  she  could  remind  Scotty  of  a  leopard. 
Why,  she  was  just  a  little  wretched  girl  crying  her  heart 
out,  and  that  was  all.  Johnny  felt  quite  sorry  for  her. 
Which,  could  he  have  but  known  it,  is  a  most  dangerous 
feeling  when  the  lady  concerned  is  as  beautiful  as  was 
Mrs.  Wallace. 

There  was  a  deep  sigh  from  the  aforesaid  lady,  and  then 
a  rustling  and  a  scraping  as  she  swung  down  over  the 
double-tree  to  the  ground.  White  shawl  trailing  across 
one  shoulder  she  headed  back  toward  the  Broken  Dollar. 
Johnny  stretched  legs  and  arms  in  aching  relief  and  dodged 
round  the  pole  of  the  freight-wagon  to  where  he  could 
follow  her  with  his  eyes. 

He  saw  her  figure  become  one  with  the  darkness  and 
then  reappear  with  magic-lantern  abruptness  under  one  of 


94  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

the  lighted  windows  of  the  Broken  Dollar.  Here  she 
halted,  produced  from  her  bosom  a  small  glittering  object, 
held  it  before  her  face,  and  dabbed  at  her  features  with  an 
article  the  size  and  shape  of  a  small  apple. 

"Powderin'  her  face,  poor  li'l  thing,"  commented 
Johnny.  "I'll  bet  her  eyes  are  some  swole." 

The  back  door  of  the  saloon  opened.  Slay  stood  in  the 
doorway. 

"Lotta!     Lotta!"  he  called. 

"  Here  I  am,"  she  replied,  almost  at  his  elbow.  "There's 
no  need  to  yell  your  head  off." 

"Didn't  see  you,"  he  said  crossly.  "Come  in  here, 
quick.  What's  the  matter  with  you  ?  Why  did  you  leave 
the  wheel?" 

"Because  I  felt  like  it!"  she  flung  back,  smoothing  a  per 
fect  eyebrow  with  the  ball  of  her  thumb. 

"Oh,  I  see.  Suppose  you  come  in  then — if  you  feel 
like  it." 

"When  I  feel  like  it,  I  will." 

She  powdered  her  nose  again  with  maddening  delibera 
tion. 

"Come  in  here  at  once!"  The  command  lost  most  of 
its  force  because  Slay  pettishly  stamped  his  foot. 

"Of  course,  you  frighten  me  to  death  when  you  do  that," 
she  observed  sweetly.  "Why  don't  you  drag  me  in  by  the 
hair?" 

"Are  you  coming  in?" 

"I  meant  to,  but  since  you've  been  so  pleasant,  I  think 
I'll  go  home." 

Slay  stepped  back  and  slammed  shut  the  door.  Mrs. 
Wallace  returned  mirror  and  powder-pufF  to  their  hiding- 
place,  blew  a  kiss  at  the  closed  door,  and  walked  slowly 
round  the  corner  of  the  building. 


THE  OTHER  WOMAN  95 

"Shore  got  a  mind  of  her  own,  that  one/'  remarked 
Johnny.  "  Maybe  she  ain't  such  a  poor  li'l  thing  after  all." 

Pondering  the  unexpectedness  of  woman,  Johnny 
cautiously  diagonalled  across  the  open  ground  to  where, 
beyond  the  outermost  shack,  Main  Street  became  a  trail. 
Here  he  turned  townward  and,  walking  leisurely,  came  to 
the  Broken  Dollar,  pushed  open  the  door,  and  entered. 

The  long  wide  barroom  was  filled  with  tobacco-smoke  and 
customers.  The  tobacco-smoke  hung  in  layers  in  the  at 
mosphere.  The  customers  hung  in  suspense  upon  the 
turn  of  the  cards  and  the  caprice  of  a  tiny  ball  dancing 
within  a  sunken  wheel  of  many  pockets. 

Johnny  did  not  pause  at  the  door.  He  walked  without 
haste  between  the  tables  to  the  bar  at  the  other  end  of  the 
room.  There  were  only  three  men  standing  at  the  bar. 
One  was  the  hard-faced  Tom  Keen,  he  of  the  two  guns, 
Ganey  of  the  dyed  mustache,  and  a  sharp-featured  citizen 
known  as  Spill  Harper.  These  three  turned  and  surveyed 
him  as  he  approached.  Johnny  gave  them  stare  for  stare, 
fronted  up  to  the  bar,  rang  down  a  quarter  and  called  for 
whiskey.  The  bartender  shoved  forward  a  bottle  and  a 
glass.  Johnny  poured  out  a  scant  two  fingers,  cupped  his 
left  hand  round  the  glass,  and  leaned  sidewise  against  the 
bar. 

His  attitude  was  lazy  and  his  demeanour  careless,  but 
his  half-shut  sardonic  eyes  missed  no  detail  of  what  was 
passing  under  the  hanging  lamps  in  that  big  room.  He 
perceived  that  fully  half  the  men  in  the  place  were  neg 
lecting  their  play  to  watch  him.  Some  of  them  nudged 
each  other  and  whispered  among  themselves,  but  when  his 
eyes  fell  upon  these  they  ceased  nudging  and  whispering 
and  affected  an  air  of  extreme  unconcern. 

As  Johnny's  gaze  fell  upon  the  roulette  table  he  smiled 


96  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

slightly.  He  understood  Slay's  anger  at  Mrs.  Wallace's 
defection.  Harry  Slay  was  behind  the  table  now,  and  the 
patronage  was  slim.  With  his  sister  to  spin  the  wheel 
roulette  would  have  been  the  most  popular  game  in  the 
room. 

The  gambler's  face  as  he  dropped  the  ball  and  worked 
the  lever  was  wooden.  He  paid  and  took  in  bets  without 
once  lifting  his  eyes  above  the  level  of  the  table.  Abruptly 
he  turned  to  a  friend. 

"Spin  her,  will  you,  Bill?"  he  asked.  "I  have  a  little 
matter  of  business  to  arrange." 

"Shore,"  replied  friend  Bill,  and  Slay  stepped  out  from 
behind  the  table  and  walked  straight  toward  Johnny  Ram 
say  standing  at  the  door. 

Johnny  had  not  been  expecting  any  such  sudden  move 
as  this,  but  he  was  in  readiness.  The  heel  of  his  right 
hand  just  touched  the  butt  of  his  gun.  Slay's  hands  were 
swinging  at  his  sides,  but  this  meant  nothing.  Johnny 
had  seen  Slay  throw  down  once  before. 

As  Slay  approached  Johnny  the  room,  following  the 
hasty  shuffling  of  folk  intent  on  leaving  the  zone  of  fire, 
became  as  still  as  midnight  in  a  church.  Johnny  wondered 
where  Slay's  bullet  would  make  its  little  hole.  He  himself 
intended  to  put  as  many  pieces  of  lead  as  he  could  into 
Slay's  abdomen.  Johnny  had  killed  three  men  since  his 
entry  into  the  cattle  business.  But  he  had  killed  them  in 
an  impersonal  way,  that  is,  at  long  range,  with  a  rifle. 
He  had  borne  no  special  animosity  against  these  men. 
He  had  shot  them  simply  as  a  matter  of  course.  They  had 
been  rustlers,  outlaws  of  the  range,  wolves  to  be  destroyed 
on  sight.  And  he  had  not  seen  them  die; 

But  here  was  a  man  he  must  shoot  at  close  range  with  a 
six-shooter.  How  would  it  feel  to  perforate  an  enemy  and 


THE  OTHER  WOMAN  97 

watch  him  pass  out  under  one's  very  eyes?  It  suddenly 
struck  him  that  he  himself  would  in  all  likelihood  be  too 
dead  to  observe  with  any  thoroughness  the  demise  of  an 
other.  The  idea  tickled  his  sense  of  humour,  and  he 
chuckled  audibly. 

Not  ten  feet  away  Slay  halted,  his  hands  held  well  away 
from  his  sides. 

"Looking  for  me?"  Slay  asked,  his  pale  slanting  eyes 
meeting  Johnny's  fixed  gray  stare. 

"I  never  hunt  trouble,"  replied  Johnny. 

"Any  hard  feelings?" 

"Never  use  'em." 

"Have  a  drink?" 

"Shore." 

The  bartender  made  ludicrous  haste  to  serve  the  boss 
and  Johnny.  Eye  to  eye  the  two  men  drank  off  their 
liquor.  Johnny,  as  etiquette  required,  called  for  another 
round.  They  drank  again.  Then  Slay  nodded  to  Johnny, 
mentioned  that  he  would  see  him  later,  and  went  back  to 
his  roulette  table.  The  incident  was  closed,  and  the  spec 
tators  resumed  their  pursuit  of  pleasure  with  noisy  avidity. 

Johnny,  standing  alone  at  the  bar — Tom  Keen,  Ganey, 
and  Spill  Harper  had  gone  elsewhere — sought  to  probe  the 
true  inwardness  of  the  gambler's  motive  in  seeking  peace. 

"Trying  to  make  me  believe  he's  willin'  to  be  friendly," 
he  reflected.  "But  he  shore  is  a  bigger  man  than  I  took 
him  to  be,  comin'  right  out  an'  facin'  it  thisaway.  Nerve 
an'  slickness — he's  got  'em  both.  An'  yet  not  ten  minutes 
ago  he  stamped  his  foot  at  his  sister,  which  is  shore  one 
kid's  trick." 


CHAPTER  X 
THE  LIGHT  THAT  LIES 

THE  following  afternoon  Johnny,  ensconced  on  the 
Burr  doorsill,  saw  Slay  and  his  sister  coming  up  the 
street.  Slay,  frock-coated  in  spite  of  the  heat,  was 
leading  a  saddled  horse,  and  Mrs.  Wallace,  radiant  in 
gray  and  old  rose,  held  a  parasol  between  her  complexion 
and  the  sun.  She  was  talking  animatedly  to  her  brother. 

"Here  come  some  friends  o'  yores,"  Johnny  announced, 
tapping  the  back  of  the  chair  on  which  Dorothy  sat  darning 
religiously. 

"Who's  with  Harry?"  she  asked  calmly. 

"Yuh  knowed  he  was  comin'!"  he  accused. 

"Why,  of  course,"  she  told  him  with  a  quick  sidewise 
glance.  "We're  going  riding  to-day." 

"So  that's  why  yuh've  got  yore  boots  on."  Johnny 
was  not  in  the  least  pleased,  and  his  tone  showed  it. 

"My  dear  man,  what  would  you  have  me  wear?" 

"I  don't  mean  yore  boots.  I  mean  yuh  might  'a'  told 
me." 

"What?  "she  teased. 

Johnny  glared  his  displeasure  at  her  levity.  Dorothy 
smiled. 

"What  does  it  matter  about  me?"  inquired  Johnny  bit 
terly.  "I  was  only  spendin'  the  afternoon.  I'd  like  to 
know  why  yuh  couldn't  'a'  gone  ridin'  with  me,  Dorothy?" 

"'You  never  asked  me,  sir,  she  said.'  There,  there, 

98 


THE  LIGHT  THAT  LIES  99 

Johnny,  you'll  ruin  your  perfectly  good  features  if  you  per 
sist  in  frowning  that  way.  Who's  with  Harry?" 

"His  sister."     Glumly. 

"She  is!"     Dorothy's  dark  eyes  sparkled. 

She  bit  off  a  thread  with  a  vicious  click  of  white  teeth. 
The  colour  in  her  cheeks  deepened.  Johnny  was  totally 
oblivious  to  these  manifestations  of  feminine  interest.  He 
was  too  busy  feeling  abused. 

The  Slay  tribe  arrived.  The  gambler  and  Johnny 
were  gravely  restrained  in  their  greeting.  Not  so  the 
ladies.  They  kissed  each  other  with  great  fervour  and 
"My  dear"  before  and  after,  and  bestowed  compliments 
with  a  buttery  lavishness. 

The  gambler  introduced  Johnny  to  Mrs.  Wallace,  and 
asked  Dorothy  if  she  was  ready. 

"Right  away,"  she  told  him,  reaching  inside  the  door 
way  for  her  quirt,  "Be  with  you  in  three  shakes.  You 
go  on  and  saddle  up." 

Slay  lifted  his  hat  to  his  sister  and  Johnny  and  departed 
for  the  corral.  Dorothy  followed  a  moment  later,  after 
strictly  enjoining  Mrs.  Wallace  and  Johnny  to  make  them 
selves  at  home  till  she  returned.  Johnny  trailed  Dorothy 
with  sulky  eyes.  He  hated  Slay.  What  right  had  the 
man  to  take  Dorothy  riding? 

"Won't  you?"  Mrs.  Wallace  was  saying. 

"Won't  I  what?"     He  stared  at  her  without  friendliness. 

"Won't  you  talk  to  me?  I've  already  asked  you  three 
times." 

She  had  closed  her  parasol  and  now  stood  with  her  hands 
clasped  over  the  round  handle.  There  was  a  talented 
patch  of  court-plaster  on  her  left  cheek-bone.  Her  lips 
were  slightly  parted  and  her  eyes  were  warmly  pleading. 
She  was  very  lovely,  and  she  wanted  him  to  talk  to  her. 


ioo  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

What  small  hands  she  had.  The  prospect  of  a  long  after 
noon,  full  of  empty  hours  and  shimmering  heat,  decided 
Johnny. 

" Ma'am,  I'd  shore  admire  to  talk  to  yuh,"  he  declared 
solemnly. 

"It's  dear  of  you  to  say  that,"  she  said.  "I  know  you 
don't  mean  it,  but  I  really  would  like  to  make  up  to  you  for 
Dorothy's  absence  if — if  I  could  and  you'd  let  me." 

This  was  spreading  the  jam  rather  thickly,  but  man  is 
an  obtuse  animal.  Johnny  grinned. 

"  I  guess  now  you  an'  I'd  oughta  get  along  together  real 
well,"  was  his  hearty  endorsement. 

Mrs.  Wallace  smiled,  and  a  fugitive  dimple  showed  for 
an  instant  in  her  right  cheek. 

"Suppose  we  go  over  to  my  house,"  she  suggested. 
"It's  near  the  river,  and  there's  almost  always  some 
breeze." 

"That  shore  listens  well,"  said  Johnny.     "Let's  go." 

They  went.  Half  Main  Street  saw  them  go,  and  the 
whole  town  knew  it  ten  minutes  later. 

"Just  watch  her  grin  at  him!"  urged  Mrs.  Mace, 
flattening  a  snubby  nose  against  a  window-pane  in  her 
kitchen. 

"That's  the  first  time  I  ever  seen  her  out  walkin'  with 
a  man,"  declared  Mrs.  Ragsdale.  "Move  over,  dear. 
I  can't  see  a  thing.  She's  wearin'  the  gray  again,  ain't  she  ? 
Makes  her  look  hump-shouldered,  don't  it?" 

"Shore  does,  an'  that  rose  colour  ain't  fit  for  a  sallow 
thing  like  her  to  wear.  She  hasn't  colour  enough.  Look! 
Look!  See  her  walk  close  to  him.  The  brazen  creature!" 

"I  always  knew  she  was  a  hussy  for  all  her  quiet  ways. 
The  cat!" 

"Oh,  she's  a  sly  minx.     They're  the  ones,  Ella.     The 


THE  LIGHT  THAT  LIES  101 

putty-faced  things  who  act  as  if  butter  wouldn't  melt  in 
their  mouths,  they're  the  ones  to  look  out  for." 

"She's  skinny  as  a  rail,"  contributed  Mrs.  Ragsdale, 
holding  resolutely  to  the  main  road.  "I'll  bet  her  legs 
ain't  thicker'n  matches." 

"Whose  legs  ain't  thicker'n  matches?"  asked  Jim  Mace, 
entering  at  the  moment. 

"None  of  your  business,"  his  wife  told  him.  "Didja 
see  that  widow  woman  an'  Johnny  Ramsay?" 

"Yuh  bet  yuh.     Johnny  always  was  a  lucky  jigger." 

"Oh,  is  that  so?  Well,  if  you  think  so,  Jim  Mace,  I'll 
just  thank  you  to  keep  such  opinions  to  yoreself,  an'  don't 
you  forget  it  neither!  C'mon,  Ella,  let's  go  in  the  side 
room.  I  believe  she's  takin'  him  home,  an'  if  they  sit 
on  the  porch  we  can  watch  'em  fine." 

But  Mrs.  Wallace  and  Johnny  did  not  sit  on  the  porch. 
The  fascinating  widow  knew  all  about  a  small  town,  and 
she  took  her  guest  into  the  house.  The  puncher's  eyes 
widened  at  sight  of  the  sitting-room  and  its  appointments. 
There  were  several  water-colours  and  three  small  paintings 
on  the  walls.  Above  the  door  the  mounted  head  of  a 
buffalo  bull  faced  a  splendid  Sioux  warbonnet  hanging  on 
the  opposite  wall.  Chairs,  broad  and  deep,  a  wide  table, 
a  long  sofa  covered  with  fat  pillows,  a  book-case  full  of 
books,  and  a  thick,  soft  carpet,  completed  the  picture. 
Even  the  sitting-room  at  the  Bar  S  was  not  so  fine  as  this 
one.  Johnny  moved  cautiously.  Spurs  are  scratchy 
things. 

Mrs.  Wallace  excused  herself  and  vanished  through  a 
doorway  hung  with  a  pair  of  striped  Zuni  blankets.  Johnny 
slid  across  the  carpet  to  the  nearest  chair.  He  sat,  having 
care  to  his  spurs,  and  absentmindedly  pulled  out  the  mak 
ings.  He  remembered  his  manners  as  he  was  on  the  point 


102  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

of  striking  a  match  and  disgustedly  shot  the  white  roll 
out  of  the  window.  He  began  to  wish  he  hadn't  come. 
It  was  no  fun  sitting  alone  this  way.  Where  was  Mrs. 
Wallace  anyway? 

At  that  moment  she  pushed  aside  the  Zuni  blankets  and 
came  toward  him,  smiling  delightfully.  She  was  carrying 
a  small  tray.  There  were  two  tall  glasses  and  a  square 
bottle  on  that  tray.  Times  immediately  began  to  im 
prove.  Johnny's  somber  eye  brightened. 

"  You  may  not  like  this,"  she  said,  holding  out  the  tray. 
"It's  something  I  invented  myself.  I  call  it  Texas  Pete." 

Texas  Pete  was  of  a  light  brown  colour  and  both  glasses 
were  full  of  him.  Johnny's  fingers  wrapped  themselves 
round  one  of  the  glasses.  Mrs.  Wallace  took  the  other, 
set  the  tray  on  the  table,  and  sat  down  on  the  sofa.  She 
tucked  one  leg  under  her,  and  swung  theother  child-fashion. 
Raising  the  glass  to  her  lips,  she  looked  at  Johnny  across 
the  rim  and  sipped  slowly. 

Johnny  did  not  sip  slowly.  He  was  not  accustomed  to 
drinking  that  way.  He  lowered  the  half-emptied  glass 
to  the  arm  of  the  chair  and  grinned  cheerfully. 

"Reg'lar  shore-'nough  drink,"  he  assured  her.  "What's 
ink?" 

She  told  him.  He  stared  aghast  at  the  tale  of  ingredi 
ents,  and  looked  down  at  his  glass  with  sudden  respect. 

"One  more  o'  this  here  Texas  gent  an'  I'd  shore  push 
the  bridge  over,"  said  he.  "No,  ma'am,  no  more.  I'll 
just  finish  this  an'  call  it  a  day." 

"  You're  not  going  yet ! "  she  exclaimed  piteously.  "Oh, 
you  mustn't!  I'll  be  so  lonely  if  you  do." 

Once  more  the  jam  and  the  trowel.  Such  flattery  would 
have  held  Johnny  even  if  he  had  intended  going,  which  he 
hadn't. 


THE  LIGHT  THAT  LIES  103 

"I  wasn't  thinkin'  o'  goin',"  he  told  her  with  an  ease 
born  of  Texas  Pete  and  the  lady's  blandishments.  "Can 
I  smoke?" 

"Surely.     Try  one  of  mine." 

He  did,  and  she  taught  him  how  two  cigarettes  may  be 
simultaneously  lit  by  the  one  match.  Besides  being  econ 
omical  this  method  of  starting  a  smoke  has  a  charm  all  its 
own.  Of  course  it  necessitated  Johnny's  moving  to  the 
sofa.  He  did  not  return  to  the  chair.  With  every  passing 
minute  he  was  feeling  more  at  home.  He  almost  forgot 
that  the  lady's  brother  was  his  enemy.  He  watched  her 
leaning  back  among  the  puffy  cushions.  Her  eyes  were 
deep  as  wells.  Then  it  suddenly  struck  him  that  for  the 
last  hour  he  had  been  doing  most  of  the  talking.  She  had 
asked  questions,  apparently  casual  questions,  but  they 
required  lengthy  answers. 

"Well,"  he  said,  with  a  slight  laugh,  "I'm  shore  warmed 
up  to-day.  Bet  I've  talked  an  arm  offyuh." 

"Don't  stop,"  she  begged,  in  her  earnestness  leaning 
forward  and  clasping  her  hands  round  her  silken  knee. 
"I'm  enjoying  it  so.  I  just  love  to  hear  how  men  do 
things." 

"Doyuh?" 

"Of  course.  Tell  me  some  more  about  those  Indians. 
Did  they  keep  right  on  stealing  horses?" 

"Nobody  keeps  right  on  stealin'  bosses,  ma'am.  He 
steals  one  hoss  too  many  an'  gets  stretched.  An*  them  In 
juns  did  an'  they  was." 

"  I  suppose  it  always  turns  out  that  way,"  said  she  softly. 

"Yes'm,  an*  it's  always  that  one  hoss  too  many  does 
it,"  he  moralized.  "If  a  gent  would  only  be  satisfied. 
But  'No,'  he  says,  'when  it  comes  to  stealin'  bosses  I'm  the 
original  Solomon  forty  ways  from  the  Jack,'  an*  out  he 


io4  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

prances,  foolish  an'  certain,  an'  gloms  onto  that  extra 
cayuse.  It's  the  same  in  everythin'  else  thataway,  ma'am 
— killin',  hold-ups,  an'  all.  They  ain't  no  difference." 

"And  yet  nothing  seems  to  stop  the  road  agents  in  this 
county."  She  was  looking  up  into  his  face  with  brilliant 
eyes. 

"No,"  he  admitted,  "they  seem  to  be  playin'  in  right 
good  luck.  But  you  wait.  Maybe  yuh'll  have  to  wait 
a  year  or  two,  maybe  longer,  but  you  wait.  They'll  be 
got,  ma'am." 

"I'm  sure  I  hope  so,"  she  declared,  leaning  back  and 
patting  her  hair  with  long,  slim  fingers.  "I  had  some  silk 
for  a  gown  coming  all  the  way  from  Chicago,  and  the 
stage  was  stopped  that  trip,  and  it  was  raining,  and  they 
ripped  open  the  package  and  left  it  there  in  the  mud. 
I  could  have  wept  when  the  agent  told  me.  My  pretty 
yellow  silk  ruined!  I  hope  they  do  catch  them." 

"That's  shore  too  bad  about  yore  dress,"  he  sym 
pathized.  "Likely  them  bandits  didn't  know  what  it  was, 
or  they  wouldn't  'a'  touched  it." 

He  was  watching  a  tiny  pulse  on  the  side  of  her  round 
throat.  He  hadn't  noticed  it  before.  The  little  telltale 
was  throbbing  steadily  and  fast.  Yet  the  colour  in  her 
cheeks  had  not  altered  a  shade.  It  was  her  own  colour, 
too.  He  had  made  sure  of  that  at  the  cigarette-lighting. 

"I  wish  you  were  the  sheriff  or  a  deputy  or  something," 
said  she. 

"Me?     Why?" 

"Because  I  believe  you  could  catch  them.  I  believe 
you  could  do  more  than  this  idiotic  sheriff." 

"He's  doin'  his  best,  ma'am.  Ain't  yuh  takin'  the  loss 
o'  that  dress  mighty  hard?" 

"Oh,  it  isn't  the  dress.     It's  the  idea  of  these  bandits 


THE  LIGHT  THAT  LIES  105 

being  able  to  do  what  they  please.  They  make  a  perfect 
joke  of  the  sheriff  and  his  men.  Oh,  if  I  were  a  man,  I'd 
get  out  and  do  something!  I'd  give  these  road  agents  a 
run  for  their  money.  You  said  yourself  there's  always  one 
horse  too  many.  I'd  make  the  Fane  job  that  one  horse. 
There  are  two  thousand  dollars  apiece  offered  for  those 
bandits.  Did  you  know  that?" 

"I'd  heard."     He  nodded  a  grave  head. 

"It  would  certainly  be  worth  almost  any  man's  while. 
I  should  think  you'd  try  it  out."  The  brilliant  eyes  had 
narrowed  ever  so  slightly,  and  the  little  pulse  was  beating 
quite  rapidly  now. 

"I  ain't  a  fool,"  he  said  seriously.  "I  never  hunt 
trouble,  not  never.  An'  two  thousand  dollars  ain't  enough 
for  me  to  bet  my  life  against  nohow.  S'pose,  now,  I  lose 
the  life.  What  good's  two  thousand  wheels  to  me?  No 
sirree,  you  hear  me  talkin',  if  anybody  wants  to  hunt  road 
agents,  let  'em.  I  wouldn't  think  o'  spoilin'  their  fun. 
I  got  me  a  good  job  at  the  Flyin'  M,  an'  I  aim  to  keep  it, 
yuh  bet  yuh." 

"What  are  you  doing  in  town  then?" 

"Oh,  I  ain't  exactly  started  in  yet,"  the  answer  came  pat. 
"Yuh  see,  I  figure  to  spend  all  my  money  first.  Maybe 
by  the  first  o'  next  week  I'll  go  to  huntin'  Scotty's  strays." 

"Scotty  Mackenzie  must  be  an  easy-going  employer 
to  let  you  begin  work  with  a  vacation." 

"Men  are  scarce." — This  was  true — "I  told  him  I 
wouldn't  ride  for  him  unless  I  could  have  these  few  days 
off.  Shucks,  I  don't  draw  wages  till  I  start,  so  what's  the 
difference  to  Scotty  ?  Scotty  said  he  wished  I  was  twins." 

"Twins?" 

"Shore,  so's  he  could  hire  the  other.  He  wants  another 
man.  They's  a  whole  heap  o'  country  to  cover — more'n 


io6  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

one  stray  man  can  swing.  I  tell  yuh  what,  ma'am,  yuh 
ride  when  the  Flyin'  M  hires  yuh." 

Was  the  little  pulse  beating  less  strongly  now?  He 
thought  it  was.  Mrs.  Wallace  turned  her  eyes  away  and 
inspected  the  pink  tips  of  her  pretty  fingers. 

"Do  you  know,"  she  remarked  suddenly,  "I  like  you." 

"That's — that's  fine,"  said  he  lamely,  for  he  was  some 
what  taken  aback. 

"Yes,"  she  continued,  "you  tell  funny  stories,  and  you 
aren't  fresh.  I — I  like  it.  There's  not  much  for  a  woman 
to  do  in  this  town.  Of  course,  I'm  busy  here  in  the  morn 
ings,  and  the  Broken  Dollar  fills  in  the  evenings,  but  the 
afternoons  are  awfully  long  when  there's  no  one  to  play 
with.  I'm  pretty  lonely  sometimes." 

"That's  shore  a  fright,  ma'am."  He  did  not  know  what 
else  to  say. 

"Will  you  come  to  see  me  sometimes?"  She  gave  him 
another  of  her  straight  looks. 

"I'd  admire  to,"  he  declared,  and  meant  it,  too. 

And  in  a  little  while  he  said  good-bye  and  walked  away 
up  Main  Street. 

"Is  she,  or  ain't  she?"  he  asked  himself.  "I  shore 
dunno.  One  thing,  she's  a  shore- 'nough  lady,  even  if  she 
did  show  me  that  new  way  o'  lightin'  a  cigarette.  An'  she 
likes  me  'cause  I  don't  get  fresh,  huh  ?  I'd  like  to  see  my 
self.  Bet  she'd  smack  my  face  good  if  I  did." 

He  turned  in  at  Ragsdale's.  The  storekeeper  was  alone 
in  the  place  and  greeted  him  with  a  portentous  wink. 

"I  ain't  got  no  sofys  nor  goose-hair  pillers  nor  stuffed-up 
chairs  to  offer  yuh,"  Soapy  observed,  "but  yuh  can  sit  on 
the  counter  if  yo're  a  good  boy." 

Johnny  stared  coolly  at  the  storekeeper. 

"Yuh  seem  to  know  a  lot,"  he  drawled. 


THE  LIGHT  THAT  LIES  107 

Ragsdale  put  his  head  on  one  side  and  looked  Johnny 
up  and  down.  Then  he  scratched  his  ear. 

"Nobody  ever  called  you  good-lookin',  did  they, 
Johnny?"  asked  Soapy  anxiously. 

"Whatnell "  Johnny  began  indignantly. 

"Well,  I  was  wonderin',"  explained  his  friend.  "Yuh 
know,  Johnny,  my  eyes  are  good.  I  can  always  see  where 
I'm  lookin',  an'  I  never  seen  nothin'  beautiful  about  yuh, 
exceptin'  the  way  yuh  handle  a  rifle.  But  she  ain't  seen 
yuh  handle  a  rifle." 

He  paused  in  evident  perplexity  and  scratched  the  other 
ear. 

"It's  that  butter  yuh  don't  sell,"  remarked  Johnny. 
"  She's  gone  to  yore  head.  I  don't  wonder  neither.  The 
smell's  thick  enough  to  cut.  Why  don't  yuh  open  another 
window?" 

"It  ain't  the  butter,"  denied  Soapy.  "It's  yore  looks, 
an'  you  ain't  got  none,  so  that  ain't  possible.  She's  magic, 
that's  what  she  is,  magic.  No  offence  meant,  an'  I  know 
it  ain't  none  o'  my  business,  but  I'm  a  married  man  an5 
maybe  I  can  use  the  information.  Howdja  do  it?  Be  a 
good  feller  an'  tell." 

"How'dldowhat?" 

"Howdja  get  to  go  see  Mis'  Wallace?" 

"What's  unusual  in  that?" 

"Nothin',  only  yore  the  first  gent  ever  went  to  her  home 
to  see  her.  An'  walkin'  up  with  her,  too.  That's  why  I 
say  it's  magic." 

"Don't  nobody  ever  go  see  her?" 

"Plenty  would  like  to,  but  she  won't  have  'em.  Not 
that  she's  standoffish.  No  sirree,  it's  'Good-mornin" 
with  her  an'  'H'are  yuh,  ma'am?'  an'  she  smiles  an'  bows 
pleasant  as  yuh  please  an'  twice  as  pretty.  An'  that's  all. 


loS  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

She'll  take  yore  money  or  pay  bets  at  the  wheel  with  a 
word  for  all  the  boys.  But  it's  always  'Not  to-night,  I'm 
sorry,'  or  'Some  other  time,'  when  a  gent  only  wants  to 
walk  home  with  her.  An'  she  does  it  all  without  hurtin' 
a  feller's  feelin's.  So  this  here  is  yore  lucky  day,  Johnny. 
I'll  bet  if  you  was  to  go  down  to  the  Broken  Dollar  yuh'd 
break  the  bank/' 

The  only  man  she  had  ever  allowed  to  call.  And  she 
had  asked  him  to  call  again.  What  was  her  purpose? 
There  was  one.  She  was  not  the  woman  to  break  her 
custom  for  a  mere  whim.  Johnny  wore  his  best  poker 
face,  but  his  eye  wras  sardonic. 

"For  a  storekeeper,  Soapy,  yo're  one  wise  Abraham," 
said  Johnny  Ramsay,  and  changed  the  subject  with  a  re 
quest  for  rifle  cartridges,  caliber  forty  sixty-five. 

But  Soapy  Ragsdale  did  not  stock  the  odd  calibers. 
Johnny  departed  for  the  Golden  Rule.  Again  he  was  out 
of  luck.  Forty  sixty-fives  were  apparently  a  dead  card 
in  Paradise  Bend.  Johnny  reflected  that  there  were  other 
towns  and  other  stores  and  took  heart  of  hope. 

That  evening  Johnny  went  to  see  Dorothy  Burr.  Her 
greeting  was  casual — elaborately  so.  There  was  a  five- 
pound  box  of  candy  on  the  table. 

"Have  some,"  invited  Dorothy. 

Johnny  thought  he  wouldn't  eat  any  candy,  thank  you 
just  the  same.  A  tooth  had  been  troubling  him.  He 
feared  to  excite  the  little  brute.  Dorothy  smiled  oddly. 

"You  weren't  here  when  I  got  back,"  she  remarked,  the 
smile  becoming  a  trifle  fixed. 

"Why,  no,  I  wasn't,"  confessed  Johnny.  "I  was  some- 
'ers  else." 

"Isn't  Lotta  a  dear?"  The  tone  was  ingenuous,  but 
the  smile  was  now  quite  fixed. 


THE  LIGHT  THAT  LIES  109 

"Mis'  Wallace?  Shore,  she's  all  that.  Just  as  folksy 
as  yuh  please.  Nothin'  stuck-up  about  her." 

"I  heard  she  took  you  home  with  her." 

"I  guess  she  thought  I  was  lonesome." 

"All  the  same,  it  was  rather  a  conspicuous  thing  to  do, 
I  think.  She  never  has  any  one  to  call." 

"Sol  heard."     Dryly. 

Dorothy  stared  at  Johnny  open-mouthed. 

"Well,"  she  burst  out,  "of  all  the  smug,  conceited  men 
you're  the  smuggest  and  conceitedest!" 

Then  she  laughed.     But  the  laughter  did  not  ring  true. 


CHAPTER  XI 

VERY  STRAY  MEN 

HE  SHORE  wanted  me  stretched — bad,"  conceded 
Johnny. 
"Wat  you  t'ink — dees  Slay  she  was  one  of  dem 
bush'wackair?"   inquired   Laguerre,  his  hard  black  eyes 
glittering. 

"He  wasn't  one  of  'em,"  Johnny  said  decidedly. 

"How  you  know?" 

The  half-breed  was  now  wholly  the  Indian.  One  saw 
back  of  those  hard  eyes  the  long  line  of  relentless  hunters 
of  men. 

"  In  the  first  place  the  bosses  they  rode  was  two  chest 
nuts  an'  a  blacktail  dun.  His  boss  was  a  big  black. 
He's  got  several — two  grays  an'  a  red-an '-white  pinto, 
too." 

"Huh,"  grunted  Laguerre.  "I  weel  look  at  de  face  of 
dees  man.  I  have  de  feelin' — but  I  weel  firs'  look  at  hees 
face,  me.  How  far  now  to  de  plass  w'ere  dey  keel  Ol'  Man 
Fane  un  Beel  Homan?" 

"About  two  mile." 

"Lemme  see  dat  watch,  Johnnee." 

Johnny  handed  his  friend  the  shattered  watch  that  had 
once  been  Homan's. 

"Dees  ees  deir  firs'  meestak,"  observed  Laguerre. 
"  Bimeby  dey  mak  anudder  un  anudder,  un  den  we  catch 
dem,  by  gar.  De  meestak,  de  meestak,  alway  de  meestak. 

no 


VERY  STRAY  MEN  in 

I  have  been  de  scout,  I  have  leeve  wit'  Enjun,  un  I  know, 
me." 

So,  holding  converse  on  the  ways  of  malefactors,  red  and 
white,  they  came  to  the  scene  of  the  murders  and  their 
attendant  robbery.  Three  parts  eaten  by  wolves,  an 
offence  to  eye  and  nostril,  Fane's  dead  horse  lay  by  the 
side  of  the  road.  Breathing  through  their  mouths,  the 
two  men  forced  their  mounts  up  the  side  of  the  spur  to 
the  pocket  among  the  pines  where  the  road-agents  had 
tied  their  horses. 

The  sign  was  more  than  seventy-two  hours  old,  and  it 
had  been  partly  obliterated  by  the  feet  of  Scotty  and  the 
investigating  committee,  yet  Laguerre  looked  quite  pleased. 

"Dey  tie  two  pony  to  dat  pine,"  said  he.  "She  ees  de 
same  pine  un  dem  cayuse  nevair  move.  One  of  dem  stand 
on  tree  leg  un  point  de  off  toe.  See  how  deep  ees  de  mark 
o'  dat  toe.  She  was  stand  dere  long  tarn  un  was  not 
move,  dat  cayuse.  Dere  was  not  de  skeetair  to  mak  dem 
move  mabbeso.  Dey  was  de  pony  wit'  de  good  nature 
lak  de  lamb.  Dey  was  tie  wit'  de  rein.  Dey  was  not 
even  gnaw  de  bark.  But  look  dere.  Look  w'ere  de  odder 
hoss  was  tie.  She  was  move  roun'  de  tree — geet  all  tangle' 
up.  She  was  switch  de  tail — see  dem  hair  on  de  quakin' 
asp.  Un  dem  hair  ees  black.  She  was  de  dun  hoss.  She 
bite  de  bark.  She  pull  back  on  de  rope.  How  I  know 
dat?  Well,  den,  I  have  de  eye,  me,  un  I  see  w'ere  leetle 
t'read  o'  de  rope  ees  steeck  een  de  bark.  Dey  ees  steeck 
een  hard,  un  dat  ees  how  I  know  de  hoss  pull  back.  Dat 
dun  was  kick,  too.  See  de  mark  o'  hees  shoe  on  dat  pine. 
Here  w'ere  hees  fore  feet  stan'.  Long  way  'tween  dem 
two  mark.  She  was  de  long-leg  hoss,  dat  dun  cayuse. 
Shore  I  know  you  could  not  see  all  dat  w'en  dey  was  cross 
de  creek.  Dey  was  ride  fas'  un  de  watair  was  fly  'roun'. 


ii2  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

But  I  know,  lien  sur.  Un  all  t'ree  pony  was  shod.  Gim 
me  de  match,  my  frien'.  No  hurry  goin'  to  de  Ben*  now. 
I  wan't  for  geet  dere  aftair  de  sun  have  set." 

"We've  got  somethin'  to  go  on,"  remarked  Johnny, 
when  both  cigarettes  were  burning  well. 

"We  have  got  one  'ole  lot  for  go  on,"  softly  corrected 
Laguerre.  "We  know  dat  one  dese  men  use  de  forty- 
seexty-five  W7inchestair,  two  pony  ees  de  good-nature' 
ches'nut  un  one  ees  de  long-leg  blacktail  dun  w'at  enjoy 
for  bite  de  tree  un  keeck  un  pull  back  un  have  for  be  tie 
wit'  de  rope.  Dat  blacktail  dun,  I  tell  you,  my  frien', 
she  ees  anudder  meestak.  Dere  can  not  be  many  pony 
lak  dees  hoss.  No,  dere  can  not.  You  will  see." 

Laguerre  inhaled  complacently.  He  stretched  his  arms 
lazily  and  blew  smoke  through  his  nostrils  and  smiled  a 
slow  smile  and  licked  his  lips  cat-fashion. 

Johnny  had  given  his  friend  a  circumstantial  account  of 
events  at  the  Bend.  Which  account,  it  must  be  said, 
lacked  completeness  in  that  Johnny  neglected  to  mention 
Mrs.  Lotta  Wallace,  her  actions,  and  his  call  upon  her. 
Somehow  he  did  not  feel  it  was  necessary.  Why  drag  her 
in? 

At  dusk  Johnny  and  Laguerre  separated,  the  latter  to 
ride  the  trail  in  to  the  Bend,  the  former  to  cross  the  Yellow 
Medicine,  and,  ever  keeping  that  stream  on  his  left  hand, 
skirt  the  sprawling  length  of  Crow  Mountain,  strike  the 
Flying  M  trail  at  Wagon  Slue,  and  arrive  in  town  from  the 
north. 

Between  eleven  and  twelve  Johnny  dismounted  at  the 
hitching-rail  of  the  Three  Card.  He  was  to  meet  Laguerre 
at  the  Three  Card.  But  the  half-breed  was  not  in  the 
saloon,  norwas  he  at  the  Jacks  Up,  nor  at  Soapy  Ragsdale's. 
Buster  was  in  charge  of  the  store,  but  he  didn't  know 


VERY  STRAY  MEN  113 

where  pop  was.  Guessed  he  must  be  round  some'ers. 
Johnny  guessed  so  too  and,  on  his  way  to  the  Broken 
Dollar,  looked  in  at  the  Golden  Rule.  Cal  Mason  was 
there  buying  tobacco,  and  Dan  Smith,  the  marshal,  was 
picking  out  a  shirt,  a  beautiful  thing  of  savage  orange, 
thickly  besprinkled  with  a  chaste  design  of  purple  horse 
shoes. 

Cal  Mason  greeted  Johnny  with  a  grave  "H'are%yuh?" 
behind  which  lurked  the  smile  of  friendship,  but  Dan 
Smith  did  not  go  beyond  a  stiff  nod.  Johnny,  his  sar 
donic  eye  fixed  on  the  marshal's  ultrabilious  choice,  leaned 
against  the  counter. 

"Now,  that's  what  I  call  a  shirt,"  he  observed  cheer 
fully. 

"I  dunno  as  yuh  got  any  license  to  call  it  anythin'," 
said  the  liverish  Dan  Smith. 

"I  was  just  admirin'  it,  Marshal,"  insisted  Johnny. 
"No  offence,  but  yuh'll  shore  be  right  up  in  style.  Back 
East  they  sell  shirts  like  this  here  so  fast  that  the  factories 
all  have  to  work  overtime.  Yessir,  shore  do.  An'  why, 
'cause  all  the  laundrymen  buy  'em.  No  soap-wrastlin' 
Chink  o'  the  lot  thinks  he  can  go  out  walkin'  Sunday  after 
noons  less'n  he's  inside  one  o'  these  shirts.  Funny,  ain't 
it?" 

Johnny's  eyes  were  no  longer  sardonic.  They  were 
calm  and  sweetly  innocent  as  they  gazed  into  the  face  of 
the  marshal.  The  latter,  very  angry,  could  have  slain  him 
willingly.  But  there  are  times  when  to  take  offence  means 
to  make  oneself  ridiculous.  Dan  Smith  did  not  wish  to 
appear  ridiculous.  He  compromised  by  according  Johnny 
no  further  attention  and  taking  the  shirt. 

Johnny,  allowing  him  thirty  seconds'  handicap,  followed. 
He  was  in  time  to  see  the  marshal  pause  a  hundred  feet 


n4  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

away,  swing  his  arm,  and  hurl  something  in  between  two 
houses.  After  which  the  marshal  went  into  the  Jacks  Up 
Saloon. 

Johnny  hurried  to  where  the  marshal  had  stood  and 
dived  into  the  space  between  the  two  houses.  Groping 
purposefully  in  the  darkness,  his  fingers  encountered  a 
paper-wrapped  parcel.  He  swept  it  up  and  returned  to 
the  street.  In  the  light  from  an  open  window  he  tore  off 
a  corner  of  the  wrapping.  A  vivid  purple  horseshoe 
backed  by  savage  orange  stared  him  out  of  countenance. 

The  marshal,  drinking  with  friends  at  the  Jacks  Up 
bar,  felt  a  touch  on  his  shoulder.  He  turned  to  behold  the 
too-familiar  features  of  Johnny  Ramsay.  The  puncher 
laid  a  parcel  on  the  bar,  a  parcel  from  whose  torn  wrapper 
protruded  the  tail  of  Dan  Smith's  recent  purchase. 

"Yore  shirt,"  Johnny  announced  distinctly.  "Yuh 
dropped  it — in  the  street." 

The  pause  between  the  two  halves  of  the  explanatory 
sentence  was  obvious.  The  marshal  knew  that  he  was 
being  maliciously  badgered,  and  he  knew  that  Johnny 
knew  that  he  knew.  But  again  this  was  one  of  those  times. 
Besides,  Cal  Mason,  expectantly  solemn,  was  watching 
from  the  doorway.  The  marshal  mumbled  his  thanks, 
tucked  in  the  dangling  shirt-tail,  and  stuck  the  package 
under  his  arm.  Johnny  went  out  into  the  street.  There 
the  delighted  Cal  Mason  fell  into  step  at  his  side. 

"Yore  style  suits  me,"  averred  Cal.     "Let's  licker." 

So  they  crossed  the  street  to  the  Three  Card  and  said 
"How"  twice.  After  which  ceremony  Johnny  drifted 
down  to  the  Broken  Dollar  and  Cal  went  home  to  tell  his 
wife  how  Scotty  Mackenzie's  stray  man  had  run  a  blazer 
on  Dan  Smith. 

At  the  Broken  Dollar  Johnny  found  Laguerre  playing 


VERY  STRAY  MEN  115 

poker  with  the  express-agent,  hard-faced  Tom  Keen,  and 
one  of  Slay's  dealers.  Johnny  smiled  inwardly.  For  the 
half-breed  was  skilful  at  cards,  and  his  skill  was  costing 
the  others  much  money.  All  the  blue  chips  on  the  table 
were  in  front  of  Laguerre,  and  a  blue  chip  in  the  Broken 
Dollar  was  standard  at  ten  dollars. 

Johnny,  on  his  way  to  the  bar,  passed  the  roulette  table. 
Mrs.  Wallace  was  behind  the  wheel  and  business  was  very 
brisk.  Leaning  against  the  wall  at  her  back  stood  her 
brother.  His  hands  were  in  his  trouser-pockets  and  a  long 
black  cigar  was  clamped  between  his  jaws.  He  glanced 
at  Johnny  with  twinkling,  merry  eyes  and  nodded.  Mrs. 
Wallace  did  not  see  the  puncher.  She  was  busy  raking  in 
several  bets. 

While  Johnny  was  still  eyeing  his  first  drink,  in  marched, 
to  his  intense  disgust,  Racey  Dawson.  Racey  was  not 
due  for  two  days,  and  here  he  was  on  the  heels  of  Telescope. 
Johnny  yearned  to  tell  Racey  what  he  thought  of  him. 

As  Racey  came  through  the  doorway  he  slapped  his 
sides  with  a  full  sweep  of  both  arms.  Dust  flew  from  his 
clothing  in  a  gray  cloud.  His  face  was  ashen  with  it. 
Grinning  widely,  he  crossed  the  floor  straight  to  where 
Johnny  stood  at  the  bar,  and  Johnny  saw  that  there  was 
dust  inside  his  ears  and  down  his  neck. 

"Thought  you'd  get  away  from  me,  huh?"  cried  Racey, 
teetering  on  his  heels  in  front  of  Johnny.  "Tried  to  give 
me  the  slip,  huh?  Just  because  I  had  a  li'l  business  over 
on  the  Two  Deer  an'  was  maybe  now  a  day  late,  yuh  run 
off  an'  left  me." 

Racey  in  his  teetering  apparently  lost  his  balance  and 
fell  forward  against  the  dismayed  Johnny,  who  foresaw 
the  crumbling  of  his  plans  under  Racey's  blundering.  But 
Racey's  hand,  flung  out  to  save  himself,  gripped  Johnny's 


ii6  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

arm,  and  Johnny  felt  that  member  squeezed  three  times 
before  Racey  regained  his  equilibrium. 

"Aw,  yuh'd  oughta  come  sooner,"  Johnny  said  instantly. 
"Djuh  think  I  got  nothin'  to  do  but  wait  for  yuh  while 
yo're  hellin'  round  all  over  the  country?" 

Their  voices  were  not  pitched  low,  but  Laguerre,  facing 
them  at  his  table  across  the  room,  gave  no  sign  that  he 
heard. 

"Well,  yuh  might  'a'  waited,"  grumbled  Racey.  "Le's 
irrigate." 

While  they  stood  in  silence,  the  bottle  between  them, 
a  man  slouched  in  from  the  street  and  halted  inside  the 
doorway.  He  was  a  stocky  citizen  with  a  sandy  mustache 
and  an  aggressive  chin.  He  pushed  back  his  hat  and  one 
perceived  that  his  head  was  curiously  pinched-in  at  the 
temples.  This  characteristic,  combined  as  it  was  with 
total  absence  of  eyebrows  and  a  wall-eye,  did  not  make  for 
attractiveness.  The  stocky  man  surveyed  the  roomful 
with  a  cold  and  fishy  stare.  His  oblique  gaze  passed  over 
Johnny  and  Racey  and  fixed  itself  on  a  corner  of  the  bar. 
Still  looking  at  the  corner  of  the  bar,  Wall-eye  swaggered 
bow-leggedly  up  to  Racey  Dawson  and  suggested  drinks. 
He  likewise  smiled  amiably,  revealing  the  lack  of  two  upper 
front  teeth. 

"This  here's  my  friend,  Johnny  Ramsay,"  said  Racey, 
flicking  a  tactful  thumb  at  Johnny.  "What  might  I  call 
you?" 

"Now  I  shore  did  forget  to  tell  yuh  my  name,  didn't  I  ?" 
smiled  the  stranger,  his  crooked  eye  missing  Racey  by 
four  feet.  "Which  she's  Bale  Harper.  Barkeep,  got  a 
lame  arm  ?  I'm  waitin'  for  a  glass." 

The  bartender  hastily  slid  a  bottle  and  a  glass  across  the 
bar.  As  the  newcomer  tilted  the  bottle  Johnny  noticed 


VERY  STRAY  MEN  117 

that  the  third  finger  of  his  right  hand  was  cut  off  at  the 
second  joint.  Bale  Harper  downed  his  liquor  at  a  gulp 
and  instantly  poured  out  another  glassful.  Two  or  three 
fingers  were  not  for  Harper.  He  filled  his  glass  a-brim 
and  slopping  over. 

"Nothin'  like  good  measure,"  said  he  with  a  leer,  and 
added  with  emphasis,  "that's  somethin'  I  always  aim  to 
get." 

Johnny  made  no  comment.  He  did  not  like  this  Bale 
Harper. 

"Got  a  brother  round  here  some'ers,"  remarked  Mr. 
Harper,  with  his  gap-toothed  grin.  "Been  lookin'  for 
him  ever  since  I  drifted  into  town.  You  ain't  seen  him, 
have  yuh,  Mister  Ramsay — feller  about  my  size  he  is, 
sandy  hair  an'  face  likewise,  called  Spill?" 

"Ain't  seen  him  to-day,"  answered  the  puncher,  shaking 
an  indifferent  head.  "Yesterday  he  was  around.  Him 
an'  Tom  Keen  was  together.  There's  Tom  over  there. 
Maybe  he'll  know." 

But  Johnny's  hint  did  not  bear  fruit.  Bale  Harper 
frowned  in  the  general  direction  of  Tom  Keen  and  said  he 
guessed  he'd  wait  and  see  Spill  later. 

"Good  whiskey,"  he  declared,  and  had  another. 

"I'm  tired,"  announced  Racey.  "Guess  now  I'll  give 
an  imitation  of  a  young  feller  rollin'  in.  How  about  the 
hotel,  Johnny — got  a  bed?" 

"Shore.     C'mon." 

They  departed,  despite  strong  urging  to  the  contrary 
by  Bale  Harper.  But  they  did  not  go  to  the  hotel.  For 
privacy  in  conversation  was  impossible  in  that  hostelry. 
The  partitions  were  too  thin  and  there  were  many  cracks. 
Hence  it  was  that  Johnny  and  his  friend,  walking  without 
haste,  slid  silently  betwreen  Soapy  Ragsdale's  house  and 


ii8  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

his  corral  and  felt  their  cautious  way  in  among  Soapy  Rags- 
dale's  neatly  corded  stacks  of  winter  firewood. 

"What's  up?"  demanded  Johnny,  when  they  were 
squatting  on  their  heels  between  two  stacks. 

"All  hell,"  was  Racey's  answer.  "Lute  Holloway's 
downed  and  Slim  Berdan's  shot  through  both  legs  an' 
his  shoulder." 

"Is  that  why  yuh " 

"You  wait.     Lemme  tell  it  my  own  way,  will  yuh?" 

"Shore,  but  yore  way  is  such  a  funny  way,  Racey. 
Y'  always  travel  ten  mile  to  go  two." 

"Aw,  shut  up,  I'm  travelin'  straight  now.  An' 
speakin'  o'  travelin' !  Say,  if  you'd  done  the  ridin'  I  been 
doin'  these  last  three  days  you'd  cash,  yuh  hear  me  talkin'. 
My  hoss  is  wore  down  to  a  whisper  an'  I  don't  feel  like 
much  more'n  a  short  stutter  myself.  Say — 

"There  yuh  go,  a  whirlin'  that  wide  loop!  I'm  shore 
sorry  to  hear  yo're  tired.  I'd  cry  for  yuh  if  I  could.  But 
I  don't  see  why  yuh  didn't  wait  till  it  was  time  to  start  like 
we  planned.  The  stage  would  'a'  brought  the  news  about 
Holloway  an'  Slim." 

"Gimme  a  chance,  gimme  a  chance!  My  Gawd,  yuh 
want  the  whole  thing  all  at  once!  You  lemme  alone — 
Who's  talkin'  loud?  I  ain't.  Yo're  doin'  the  bellerin'. 
Well,  Telescope  he  sifted  out  o'  town  four  days  ago  in  the 
mornin.  I  stayed.  That  night  Bill  Lainey  an'  me  are  in 
the  Blue  Pigeon  about  one  o'clock  listenin'  to  Mike 
Flynn  gas  about  them  South  Sea  Islands  o'  his,  when 
B angety-B ang!  goes  a  rifle  down  street  a  ways.  Bangety- 
Bang!  goes  another,  then  a  couple  more  mixes  in,  an'  they's 
a  whole  hatful  o'  noise.  The  South  Sea  Islands  stopped 
immediate,  an'  we  sits  down  on  the  floor  where  the 
counter's  thickest.  An'  a  good  thing  we  did.  A  forty 


VERY  STRAY  MEN  119 

sixty-five  comes  in  a  window,  grooves  the  counter  over 
my  head,  busts  a  can  o'  peaches  on  the  opposite  shelf  an' 
sticks  in  the  wall.  An'- 

"A  forty  sixty-five,  yuh  say?" 

"Shore,  a  forty  sixty-five.  Lemme  tell  it,  lemme  tell 
it — huh  ?  Of  course  I  know.  Mike  he  dug  the  lead  out  of 
the  wood  later  an'  he  told  me.  Well,  that  one  bullet  was 
all  that  come  our  way.  They's  only  a  few  shots,  not 
more'n  thirty  at  the  outside,  then  tuckety-tuck,  tuckety-tuck 
up  the  street  come  four  jiggers  a-ridin'  an'  a-quirtin'  an 
a-spurrin'  like  they  hadn't  a  minute  to  live.  They 
wasn't  out  o'  town  before  they's  a  pile  o'  hollerin'  down  in 
front  o'  Slim  Berdan's  house.  The  three  of  us  goes  down, 
an'  they's  the  two  Holland  boys  carryin'  Slim  Berdan, 
bleedin'  like  a  stuck  steer,  into  his  house.  Across  the 
sidewalk  Lute  Holloway's  lyin'  on  his  face.  They's  five 
holes  in  Lute  an*  one  o'  them  holes  is  in  his  heart." 

"As  good  a  deputy  as  they  ever  was  in  Fort  Creek 
County,  Lute  was,"  put  in  Johnny. 

"Shore.  Jake  Rule  was  worse'n  wild.  Well,  what  with 
Lute  downed  an*  Slim  shot  up,  they's  all  kinds  o'  friskin* 
round,  but  we  got  started  in  maybe  fifteen  minutes — 
Jake  Rule,  Kyle,  his  other  deputy,  yores  truly,  Two  Spot 
Riley,  Piney  Jackson,  maybe  they's  twenty-five  of  us — an* 
we  punched  the  breeze.  We  knowed  they'd  headed  north 
on  the  Bend  trail  an'  that's  all  we  did  know." 

"Didn't  nobody  see  'em  close?" 

"Slim  did,  but  she  was  too  dark  to  see  much.  They 
was  all  on  their  hosses  anyhow." 

"What  did  they  try  to  do — rob  the  express  office?" 

"They  did  not.  They  come  in  to  get  Slim.  An* 
Holloway,  because  he  lived  with  Slim,  got  into  the  muss." 

"Howdjaknow?" 


120  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

"Why,  they  all  four  come  a-gallopin*  up  to  Slim's 
house,  an'  one  of  'em  rides  up  on  the  sidewalk  an'  hammers 
on  Slim's  door,  an'  yells  for  Slim  to  come  out  quick,  he's 
wanted.  Slim  he  says  he  thought  right  away  they  was  a 
fraycas  in  town,  so  him  an'  Holloway  jumps  out  o'  bed 
an'  runs  for  the  door.  Lute  reaches  the  door  first  an'  runs 
out.  They  got  him  instanter  before  he  could  even  pull. 
Slim  had  time  to  pull  all  right  an'  flip  the  hammer  twice 
before  they  shot  the  gun  out  of  his  hand  and  throwed  three 
bullets  into  him  in  other  places." 

"Then  what?" 

"We  rode  after  them  killers  like  I  said,  an'  it's  night  an* 
all  an'  we  over-rode  their  tracks.  So  we  had  to  work 
back  an'  when  it  come  daylight  we  found  where  they'd 
left  the  trail  just  south  o'  Bear  Mountain  an'  headed 
northwest.  That  settled  it  for  Jake  Rule.  Northwest 
meant  them  killers  couldn't  be  bound  nowhere  else  but  the 
Emigrant  Hills  on  the  Dogsoldier.  So  we  spraddled 
right  along,  losin'  the  trail  an'  findin'  her  again,  an' 
bimeby  we  lost  her  good  an'  proper  like  I  knowed  we 
would  in  a  creek. 

"Shore,  they  rode  the  water  like  ducks,  an'  we  never 
did  pick  up  the  trail  again.  But  that  didn't  bother  Jake 
Rule.  'The  Emigrant  Hills,  boys,'  says  Jake.  'We'll 
catch  'em  there.'  We  stopped  at  the  Anvil  ranch  for 
fresh  horses,  but  no  news.  Nobody  stopped  there  in  two 
weeks,  an'  they  hadn't  missed  a  single  cayuse." 

"The  B  bar  B's  west  o'  the  Anvil  an'  Hall's  is  east," 
suggested  Johnny. 

"Shore,  but  we  didn't  have  time  to  go  there.  We  went 
on  an'  we  hit  the  Emigrants  an'  never  seen  a  measly  hoof- 
mark  anywhere.  We  met  Burns,  the  Wagon  Wheel 
stray  man,  an'  he  hadn't  seen  nobody.  I  knowed  they 


VERY  STRAY  MEN  121 

was  behind  us  some'ers — they  had  to  be.  But  Jake's 
stubborn  like  he  always  is,  an*  he  combs  the  Emigrants 
industrious.  Where  we  was  in  the  Emigrants  wasn't 
more'n  ninety  or  a  hundred  miles  to  the  Bend,  so  I  decided 
to  come  right  along  on  an'  let  Jake  an'  the  others  scatter 
round  all  they  wanted." 

"But  what  did  yuh  come  bawlin'  out  in  the  Broken 
Dollar  for  about  me  not  waitin'  for  yuh,  huh  ?" 

"On  account  o'  that  Bale  Harper  feller.  This  mornin* 
at  Rocket — I  spent  the  last  half  o'  the  night  at  Sinclair's, 
an'  he  was  there,  too — he  saddles  up  when  I  do  an'  allows 
if  I'm  going  north  he'll  trail  along.  Says  he  gets  lonesome, 
an'  likes  to  talk.  Now  he  ain't  exactly  curious,  this  Bale 
ain't,  but  he  shore  does  like  to  talk  an'  is  one  easy  sport  to 
make  friends  with.  He  don't  make  it  hard  for  yuh  to 
up-end  yore  whole  life's  history  into  his  ears  if  yuh  want 
to.  No  sir,  yuh  could  do  it  without  a  struggle.  An'  I 
can't  get  rid  o'  him. 

"We  stopped  at  a  ranch  along  about  noon,  an'  he  wants 
to  rest  his  hoss,  so  I  says  I'll  be  pushin'  along.  He  says 
maybe  his  hoss  ain't  so  tired  after  all  an'  he  strings  his 
chips  with  mine  all  the  way  to  the  Bend.  So  I  figured 
when  he  come  into  the  saloon  after  me  the  only  thing  I 
could  do  was  to  bluff  him  by  partly  tellin'  the  truth.  I 
dunno  nothin'  about  that  jigger  outside  o'  what  I'm  tellin' 
yuh,  but  I'm  bettin'  he's  a  bad  actor.  He's  got  a  bad  eye 
more  ways  than  one." 

"  An'  yuh  say  he  didn't  ask  any  questions  ? " 

"None  to  take  offence  at." 

"No,  he  wouldn't,  but  did  he  say  anythin'  a-tall  about 
any  places?" 

"Places?" 

"Shore,  places — towns,  hills,  creeks,  the  like  o'  that." 


122  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

Racey  thought  hard. 

"Seems  to  me  now  he  did  say  somethin'  about  the 
Dogville  trail.'* 

Now  Dogville  is  an  infinitesimal  hamlet  dotting  the 
bluff  at  the  junction  of  the  Dogsoldier  and  the  Lazy  rivers. 
Yet  an  occasional  freighter  goes  to  Dogville,  and  there  is  a 
trail  connecting  the  village  with  the  Bend  trail  north  of 
Cutter.  This  trail  runs  within  a  mile  of  the  Anvil  ranch 
house. 

"What  did  he  say  about  the  Dogville  trail?"  questioned 
Johnny. 

"Said,  'Wasn't  she  a  helluva  trail?'  or  somethin'." 

"What  did  you  say?" 

"I  says  I  didn't  know — never  followed  the  trail  in  my 
life." 

"Yuh  didn't!"  painful  amazement  rode  Johnny's 
tone. 

"Shore,  why  not?" 

"Tell  yuh  later.  Was  the  Dogville  trail  all  he  asked 
about?" 

"Cutter — yeah,  Cutter.  Had  Tommy  Mull  changed 
the  whiskey  at  his  hotel  yet,  an'  I  says,  'No,  same  old 
whiskey  she  always  was.'  Playin'  foxy  myself,  see — lettin' 
him  think  I  come  through  Cutter." 

"Oh,  yore  a  ringtail  whizzer,  Racey!  Honest,  if  yuh 
had  any  more  sense  you'd  be  half-witted!" 

"What  did  I  do  I'd  like  to  know.  Didn't  I  hafta  say 
somethin'  to  yuh  in  the  saloon?  Didn't  I  hafta,  huh? 
I'm  askin'  yuh,  didn't  I?" 

"You  was  all  right  in  the  saloon.  It  was  before  yuh 
got  there  yuh  was  all  wrong." 

"I'd  admire  to  know  why,"  grumbled  the  offended 
Racey. 


VERY  STRAY  MEN  123 

"This  is  why:  yuh  was  ridin*  an  Anvil  hoss,  wasn't 
yuh?  An*  yuh  said  yuh  never  rode  the  Dogville  trail  in 
yore  life.  Harper  met  yuh  on  the  Bend  trail.  All  right, 
yuh  never  seen  the  Dogville  trail,  so  he  tries  yuh  again 
with  Tommy  Mull's  whiskey  at  Cutter.  You  told  him  she 
was  the  same  old  whiskey,  didn'  yuh  ?" 

"Shore." 

"Right  there  he  got  yuh.  Ten  days  ago  Tommy  Mull 
got  religion  an*  run  every  drop  o'  whiskey  he  owned  out  on 
the  grass.  Since  then  yuh  couldn't  get  a  drink  in  Tommy's 
place  if  yuh  was  dyin'.  An'  you  played  foxy  by  blattin* 
out  *  She's  the  same  ol'  whiskey'!" 

Racey  was  dumb  for  a  space. 

"I  shore  put  my  foot  in  it,  I  guess,"  he  mourned,  when 
Johnny  had  rolled  a  scornful  cigarette. 

"That  Anvil  hoss  showed  yuh'd  been  west  o'  the  Bend 
trail  some'ers,"  said  Johnny,  sticking  the  cigarette  in  his 
mouth  for  a  dry  smoke,  "an  because  yuh  didn't  know 
nothin'  o'  the  Dogville  trail  nor  Tommy's  gettin'  religion 
showed  yuh'd  been  romancin'  round  the  country  north 
an'  west  o'  Cutter.  He  could  see  by  the  condition  o'  the 
hoss  yuh'd  been  shovin'  along  hard  an'  fast.  An'  a  fellah 
in  this  country  don't  shove  his  hoss  unless  he's  a  hoss  thief 
or  in  a  posse." 

"Maybe  he  took  me  for  a  hoss  thief,"  suggested  Racey, 
hopefully. 

"O'  course  if  you  was  yuh'd  ride  along  with  him  the 
way  yuh  did  an'  yuh'd  bring  the  hoss  here  to  the  Bend, 
where  the  brand*s  known,  wouldn't  yuh  ? " 

"Well— 

"Racey,  I'll  bet  he  knows  yuh  was  part  of  a  posse." 

"  Can't  help  it.     How  could  I  guess  all  this  ? " 

"If  we're  agoin'  to  corral  these  road  agents  you'll  hafta 


i24  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

guess  a  lot  more'n  this.  Djever  stop  to  think  Harper  may 
be  one  o'  the  Farewell  killers  ? " 

"He  ain't/'  said  Racey,  eager  to  be  of  some  use.  "He 
was  at  Rocket  nearly  a  week.  I  heard  Dave  Sinclair  say 
so." 

"He  was,  was  he?  Guess  now  I'll  just  go  down  an' 
have  a  li'l  talk  with  Dave." 

"Do  yuh  think  that  Bale  Harper  feller  is  in  with  the 
road  agents?"  asked  Racey,  lugubriously  hugging  his 
knees. 

"I  dunno.  He's  somethin'  off  colour,  whatever  his 
game  is,  or  he'd  never  'a'  made  them  breaks  about  the 
Dogville  trail  an'  Tommy  Mull's  whiskey.  Look  here, 
Racey,  didn't  nobody  see  nothin '  o'  the  jiggers  that 
downed  Lute  Holloway  ?" 

"It  was  dark,  I  tell  yuh.  All  Bill  Lainey  an'. Mike 
Flynn  an'  me  could  see  was  so  many  shadders  a-flyin' 
past." 

"Think  now.  Scratch  yore  head  if  yuh  gotta,  but 
think.  You  talked  to  Slim  after  he  was  shot,  didn't 
yuh?" 

"Shore,  but " 

"An'  yuh  heard  him  talk,  didn't  yuh  ?     Now,  what " 

"Everybody  was  runnin'  round,  I  tell  yuh,  Johnny. 
How  can  I  remember?" 

"If  yuh'll  shut  up  about  a  minute  an'  gimme  a  chance 
I'll  show  yuh  how  yuh  can  remember  maybe.  You  an'  as 
many  as  could  was  all  in  the  room  with  Slim.  There  was 
Slim  a-layin'  on  the  bed  with  Doc  Kramer  swabbin'  at  his 
nicks  an'  puttin'  on  bandages.  They's  the  lamp  lit,  an* 
somebody's  a-holdin'  it  so's  Doc  can  see  to  work,  an* 
Bill  Lainey's  breathin'  hard  an'  shufflin'  his  feet,  an* 
Slim's  a-talkin'  kind  o'  gaspy,  an*  yuh  gotta  scrouge 


VERY  STRAY  MEN  125 

forrard  so's  yuh  can  hear  what  he's  sayin'.  Now  what  did 
he  say  besides  that  about  they  bein'  four  of 'em  an*  Lute's 
runnin'  out  first?  Nemmine  how  I  know  it.  I  know. 
Now,  what  did  Slim  say  ? " 

Thus  adjured,  Racey  strove  to  live  again  his  part  in 
the  scene  reconstructed  by  Johnny  Ramsay.  There  was 
Slim  lying  on  the  blood-stained  blankets  of  the  bed.  Doc 
Kramer  had  cut  his  shirt  and  trousers  away.  There  were 
tourniquets  on  both  legs.  Slim  was  talking — wheezing 
rather.  What  was  he  saying — something  about  a  horse, 
wasn't  it?  Yes,  that  was  it.  A  light-coloured  horse. 
And  one  of  the  riders  wore  no  hat.  Slim  saw  him  against 
the  stars.  Was  there  anything  else?  Racey  Dawson 
scratched  his  head,  closed  tight  his  eyes,  but  could  not 
remember  another  word  of  what  Slim  had  said.  He  opened 
his  eyes  and  hitched  nearer  his  friend. 

"I  thought  maybe  yuh  could  tell  me  somethin'  if  yuh 
tried,"  observed  Johnny,  when  Racey  had  unbosomed  him 
self.  "A  light-coloured  cayuse,  huh?  Dun,  maybe?" 

"Can't  say.     Slim  didn't." 

"An'  the  gent  with  no  hat — was  he  ridin'  this  light 
hoss?" 

"He  was  ridin'  one  o'  the  others.  I  remember  Slim 
sayin'  that.  He  seen  him  plain  against  the  stars  after  he'd 
fell  down — Slim  fell  down." 

"No  hat.  Now,  why  wouldn't  he  wear  a  hat,  I  won 
der?"  pondered  Johnny. 

"Maybe  he  lost  it,"  contributed  Racey. 

"Maybe  he  had  it  tied  to  his  saddle-strings.  Maybe 
she  was  a  odd  hat  or  somethin'  an'  he  was  afraid  some- 
body'd  recognize  it.  Maybe  she  was  a  wide  white  hat 
with  a  high  crown,  higher  than  most.  Djever  see  a  hat 
like  that,  Racey?" 


i26  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

"The  red-head!"  Racey's  whisper  was  sharp.  "He 
had  a  hat  like  that!" 

"He  shore  had,  an'  comin'  back  after  Slim  would  be 
what  he'd  do  if  he  got  the  chance." 

"Slim  did  run  him  out  o'  town  kind  o'  abrupt." 

"That  light-coloured  hoss — yuh  can't  tell.  She  might 
'a'  been  a  dun." 

"  S'pose  she  was.     What  of  it  ? " 

"A  lot  maybe.  Wait  till  to-morrow  an'  we'll  go  over 

the  whole  thing  with  Telescope Oh,  that  was  easy. 

I  guessed  it.  O'  course  Slim  was  a-layin'  on  the  bed. 
Where  else  would  he  lay?  An'  somebody' d  hafta  hold  the 
lamp  so's  Doc  could  work,  an'  Bill  Lainey  always  breathes 
hard  an'  shuffles  his  feet  when  he's  interested,  an'  Slim 
couldn't  help  talkin'  gaspy  if  he  had  three  holes  in  him. 
So  there  y'are.  Le's  go  to  bed." 


W 


CHAPTER  XII 
LAGUERRE  TALKS 

HAT  was  Mat  Neville  comin'  north   for?"  de 
manded  Johnny. 
"I  know,  but— 

"Aw,  yuh  make  me  sick,  Racey.  It  stands  to  reason, 
don't  it,  Telescope?" 

"S'pose  now  dey  fin'  de  hat  een  Farewell,  un  she  ees 
not  a  w'ite  hat?"  evaded  the  half-breed. 

"I'm  gamblin'  they  won't  find  it.  Anyhow  I'm  writin' 
to  Jake  Rule  to  find  out  for  sure.  But  you  can  bet  she's 
them  three  hold-ups  an'  the  red-head,  an'  he  tied  his  hat 
on  his  saddle  so's  she  wouldn't  give  him  away.  It's  just 
what  he  would  do." 

"  He  would  if  he  did."     Thus  cryptically  Mr.  Dawson. 

"An'  three  men  with  him.  Where'd  he  get  three  men 
together  to  try  an'  down  Slim  an'  Holloway  outside  o'  the 
road  agent  crowd  ? " 

"Holloway  had  enemies.     So'd  Slim." 

"Shore,  but  scatterin'.  A  gent  here,  another  there,  an' 
all  in  different  parts  o'  the  county.  They  might  lay  for 
Lute  an'  Slim  separate,  but  they'd  never  organize  four  in 
a  bunch.  If  I  could  only  be  sure  that  light-coloured  boss 
was  a  black-tail  dun.  Anyway,  one  of  'em  was  usin'  a 
forty  sixty-five.  That's  somethin'." 

"One  t'ing,"  observed  Laguerre:  "eef  de  red-head  she 
belong  to  de  hold-up  outfit,  w'y  don'  she  stop  de  stage 

127 


128  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

wit'  de  res'?  De  men  w'at  have  do  dat  are  seex  foot  mab- 
beso,  but  dees  man  wit'  de  red  hair  she  ees  seex  foot  four, 
un  no  one  was  ever  see  man  tall  as  dat  stop  de  stage  or 
rob  de  minair." 

"I  know  that,"  agreed  Johnny.  "I've  asked  a  heap  o' 
folks  an'  none  of  'em  have  ever  seen  a  gent  like  this  red 
head,  but  djever  stop  to  think  that  the  folks  he  holds  up 
might  be  too  dead  to  talk  about  it  afterward?" 

"  Dat  ees  true,"  nodded  Laguerre. 

"  But  somebody's  got  to  see  him  if  he  is  one  of  'em," 
said  Racey. 

"Somebody  will — if  he  is.  How  about  that  stage- 
station  job,  Racey,  or  would  yuh  rather  toss  up  for  the 
stray  man  end?" 

"Not  me.  I'll  get  a  job  in  town  myself.  She's  a  right 
nice  li'l  place — good  scenery,  good  folks." 

"Yeah."     Suspiciously. 

"They's  a  right  handsome-lookin'  lady  in  the  Bend,  an* 
I  aim  to  meet  her.  Yessir,  I'm  satisfied  to  give  my  hoss  a 
rest." 

"Who's  the  lady?"  acute  interest  mixed  with  the  sus 
picion. 

"The  one  behind  the  wheel  at  the  Broken  Dollar. 
Say " 

"He's  off!"  cried  the  greatly  relieved  Johnny.  "When 
Racey  Dawson  starts  talkin'  about  a  girl,  he's  good  for  all 
day.  Le's  go  away  an'  leave  him,  Telescope." 

The  three  had  rendezvoused  in  a  thickly  wooded  gulch 
on  the  eastern  slope  of  Old  Baldy.  In  accordance  with 
their  plan  Johnny  and  Laguerre  rode  from  there  straight 
to  the  Flying  M  and  Racey  Dawson  returned  to  the  Bend. 
Racey  had  not  informed  his  two  friends  of  his  intention  to 
loaf  about  town  a  few  days  before  starting  to  work. 


LAGUERRE  TALKS  129 

There  was  no  hurry.  And  roulette  is  a  fascinating  game. 
Besides,  there  was  Bale  Harper  to  be  investigated.  He 
couldn't  do  that  very  well  if  he  were  working.  Of  course 
not.  He  had  more  than  a  hundred  dollars  in  his  poke, 
and  there  wasn't  a  cloud  in  the  sky.  Racey  crooked  a  leg 
round  his  saddle-horn  and  whistled  the  "Rakes  of  Mallow" 
with  joy  and  abandon.  An  easy  conscience  is  a  wonderful 
thing. 

Johnny  and  Laguerre  were  openly  and  loudly  hired  by 
Scotty  Mackenzie  ten  minutes  after  their  arrival  at  the 
Flying  M.  The  foreman,  Doubleday  of  the  sharp  nose 
and  sharper  eye,  took  them  at  their  face  value  and  sent 
them  down  to  the  bunkhouse.  Doubleday  did  not  fully 
comprehend  the  necessity  of  two  stray  men,  but  he  knew 
Scotty  to  be  a  creature  of  whims.  No  one  ever  even 
dreamt  of  questioning  Scotty's  whims.  So  when  the  old 
ranchman  said  that  he  himself  would  give  the  new  men 
their  orders,  Doubleday  merely  shifted  his  quid  and  dis 
missed  the  subject  from  his  mind. 

The  next  morning  Johnny  and  Laguerre  rode  away 
southward.  That  men  might  know  of  the  place  and  man 
ner  of  their  employment  the  two  rode  Flying  M  horses 
and  carried  open  letters  signed  by  Scotty. 

"Guess  maybe  we'd  better  stop  in  the  Bend,  Telescope," 
said  Johnny  when  the  town  was  less  than  a  mile  away. 
"I — we  gotta  see  what  Racey's  doin'." 

"Shore,  un  I  wan'  for  see  w'at  dat  Meestair  Slay  she  was 
do." 

"Got  any  idea  what  for  a  gent  he  is  yet,  Telescope?  I 
didn't  see  yuh  look  him  over  very  close." 

"I  was  look  all  right.  But  I  do  not  let  you  see  me  look, 
un  I  do  not  let  heem  see  me  look.  I  am  not  de  fool,  me. 
Well,  I  tell  you,  Johnny,  she  ees  not  easy  for  tell  what  she 


130  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

ees  lak.  I  know  dees,  she  ees  de  one  w'at  do  de  beeg 
t  'ing.  She  would  not  be  satisfy  wit*  less." 

"What  yuh  mean?" 

"I  mean  eef  she  ees  de  rustlair  she  would  not  rustle 
forty  cow,  she  would  rustle  'ole  dam  herd.  Eef  she  steal 
de  money,  she  would  steal  not  feefty-seexty  dollar,  she 
would  tak  ten  t'ousan'.  Now  you  see." 

"I  see." 

"Un  she  ees  clevair,  dees  man.  By  gar,  she  have  de 
brain.  Dose  t'ing  I  see.  More  dan  dat,  no." 

The  half-breed's  expressive  shrug  was  a  direct  legacy 
from  his  French  father. 

"But,"  he  continued  harshly,  "w'at  I  can  not  see,  I  can 
guess." 

"That's  easy.     So  can  I  guess." 

"We  do  not  guess  de  same,  mabbeso.  Leesten.  Las' 
night  I  was  talk  wit'  Scotty  un  she  tell  me  w'at  she  know 
about  dees  Slay  un  hees  seestair,  how  dey  was  come  from 
Cheecawgo,  un  de  seestair  she  ride  de  pony  lak  one  bustair 
un  was  not  run'  round  wit'  de  men  un  Slay  she  mak  money 
een  de  Broken  Dollar.  All  right,  dat  ees  fine,  hones'  bees- 
ness,  but  she  ees  small  beesness.  She  ees  too  small  for 
man  lak  Slay.  Un  de  seestair — Johnny,  have  you  ever 
see  de  beeg  ceety?" 

"I  been  east  to  Cheyenne  once." 

"Yeah,  Cheyenne  ees  de  ceety,  but  she  ees  not  de 
beeg  ceety.  By  gar,  me,  I  have  see  Kebec  un  Montreal 
un  Ottawa  w'en  I  was  boy,  un  dere  een  dat  plass  I  was 
see  les  grandes  demoiselles,  not  de  dance-hall  girl  wit' 
de  paint  un  de  smile  lak  one  spidair,  but  de  great, 
great  lady  all  dress  up  een  de  seelk  un  de  feddair  wit'  de 
fine  leetle  buckle'  shoe,  un  I  tell  you  dey  was  somet'ing 
for  see. 


LAGUERRE  TALKS  131 

"Bon  Dieu,  I  was  so  close  to  dem  I  could  touch  dem,  me. 
But  I  deed  not.  I  was  'fraid,  un  I  step  off  de  sidewalk. 
But  I  was  watch,  always  I  was  watch,  un  I  was  een  dat 
plass  t'ree  year,  un  I  say  dat  w'en  I  go  'way  I  know  de 
lady  w'en  I  see  her.  Un  dat  ees  w'at  Mees  Wallace  ees. 
She  ees  all  same  one  o'  dem  grandes  demoiselles  een  Kebec 
un  Montreal  un  Ottawa." 

"You  mean  you  seen  her  there?"  Johnny  was  ob 
viously  skeptical. 

"No,  I  was  not  see  her.  I  mean  she  ees  lak  dem.  She 
ees  une  grande  demoiselle,  un  she  have  de  brain  behin'  de 
eye,  too.  Well  den,  I  say,  me,  w'y  a  man  un  a  lady,  bot' 
wit*  de  brain  un  de  lady  a  grande  demoiselle,  w'y  dey  come 
here  to  dees  plass,  dees  plass  w'ere  dere  ees  nuttin'  but  de 
heel  un  de  cow  un  de  pony?" 

Johnny  bethought  him  of  Texas  Pete,  the  two  cigarettes 
and  the  one  match.  Did  grandes  demoiselles  act  that  way? 
He  wondered.  Laguerre  misinterpreted  his  silence. 

"Dere  now,  you  see  w'at  I  see,"  he  exclaimed  in  triumph, 
"un  you  guess  w'at  I  guess.  Money  was  bring  dem,  un 
eet  was  not  de  money  een  de  Broken  Dollar." 

"I  been  thinkin'  some  o'  Friend  Slay  that  way,  myself," 
admitted  Johnny,  "an'  the  more  I  think  of  it,  the  more  I 
like  the  notion.  But  that  ain't  provin5  it's  so  none.  Yuh 
know  it's  plumb  easy  to  believe  a  thing  when  yuh  want  to. 
When  I  said  somethin'  to  Scotty  about  Slay  an'  the  bandits 
he  couldn't  see  it  a-tall.  Don't  like  Slay  none,  he  says, 
but  he's  gotta  give  him  his  due  an'  say  they  ain't  a  thing 
against  him.  Slay's  always  in  town  when  they's  hold-ups, 
except  this  last  one,  o'  course,  an'  I  know  he  wasn't  in 
that. 

"Deed  I  not  say  Meestair  Slay  she  have  de  brain?" 
asked  Laguerre  softly. 


132  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

"Sort  o'  sits  back  an'  lets  the  other  feller  work,  huh?" 

"We  weel  see,  mabbeso." 

On  their  way  through  town  they  stopped  at  the  Burr 
house. 

"She  ain't  home,"  the  voice  of  young  Sammy  Barnes 
shouted  from  the  corral.  Young  Sammy  poked  his  head 
turtle-wise  through  the  bars  of  the  gate  and  smiled  a 
knowing  smile  that  reached  clear  across  his  face.  And 
it  was  a  wide  face. 

"Ain't  Mis'  Burr  got  back  from  Jack  Creek  yet?"  A 
clever  blend  of  surprise  and  dignity  on  the  part  of  Mr. 
Ramsay. 

"You  didn't  come  to  see  Mis'  Burr!"  retorted  the  turtle 
in  loud,  unsympathetic  tones.  "  You  come  to  see  Dor-thy ! 
Whatcha  blufflin'  for,  huh?  Can't  fool  me!  I  seen  yuh! 
Yo're  stuck  on  Dor' thy,  that's  whatcha  are!" 

Had  the  state  of  being  stuck  on  Dorothy  been  a  most 
flagitious  offense  Johnny  could  not  have  reddened  more 
enthusiastically.  He  seethed  inwardly  with  a  great  seeth 
ing.  Mrs.  Mace,  residing  a  few  houses  nearer  Main  Street, 
hurried  outdoors  to  shake  a  dust-rag.  Mrs.  Carey  and 
Tug  Wilson's  sister  both  had  business  on  their  doorsteps. 
Interested  heads  appeared  at  various  open  windows. 

"Harry-Slay-give  her-'nother-box  o'-candy-yest'day- 
why-don'tchu-give-her-some  ? " 

Which  breathless  and  run-together  combination  state 
ment  and  question  was  delivered  in  the  childish  squawk 
of  Mrs.  Carey's  eight-year-old.  Mrs.  Carey  disappeared 
within.  Followed  then  the  sound  of  smackings  punc 
tuated  by  anguished  wails.  An  appreciative  giggle,  start 
ing  with  Tug  Wilson's  sister,  ran  about  the  street. 

Johnny  Ramsay,  illogically  hating  women  and  small 
children  with  cordial  intensity,  wheeled  hisliorse  and  rode 


LAGUERRE  TALKS  133 

off — at  a  restrained  walk  that  he  mistakenly  hoped  would 
not  be  construed  as  a  retreat  under  fire.  But  the  giggle 
followed  him  to  the  corner  of  Main  Street. 

It  is  true  that  all  the  world  loves  a  lover.  But  it  does 
not  love  two  lovers.  It  laughs  heartily  and  makes  bets 
on  the  outcome.  Johnny,  recognizing  with  mental  writh 
ing  the  factuality  of  these  things,  failed  to  comprehend  why 
he  should  be  classed  as  one  of  the  lovers.  True,  he  had 
called  on  the  lady,  but  not  conspicuously.  True  again,  he 
admired  the  lady,  but  likewise  not  conspicuously — at  least 
this  is  what  he  told  himself. 

That  he  should  be  stirred  to  irritation  by  Dorothy's 
seemingly  complacent  acceptance  of  Slay's  attentions  was 
but  natural.  The  gambler  was  much  too  equivocal  a 
character  to  be  comradely  with  a  young  girl.  Such  a 
friendship  did  the  aforesaid  young  girl  no  good.  Johnny's 
concern  was  all  for  the  young  girl.  Of  course,  she  was 
precisely  what  he  had  told  Scotty,  merely  a  friend.  Abso 
lutely  nothing  more.  Quite  so.  The  greatest  playwright 
of  them  all  says  something  somewhere  relative  to  protest 
ing  too  much.  The  rule  doubtless  will  continue  to  hold 
good  till  the  end  of  time. 

Johnny  did  not  forget  his  declaration  to  Scotty  to  the 
effect  that,  as  no  one  else  seemed  disposed  to  protect 
Dorothy  from  the  man  Slay,  he  himself  would  attend  to 
the  matter.  He  realized  in  bitterness  of  soul  that  he  was 
not  making  good. 

"Look  dere!"  Laguerre  said  surprisedly. 

Johnny  looked.  Ahead  of  them  the  stage  company's 
horses  were  being  driven  by  a  hostler  to  water.  Racey, 
in  overalls,  mounted  bareback  on  a  shoeless  animal,  was 
talking  to  the  hostler. 

"When  yuh  get  back,"  Racey  was  saying,  "put  on  some 


134  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

axle-grease  to  keep  the  flies  off  that  V  T  hoss  where  he  cut 
himself  an*  scout  round  after  that  neck-yoke.  Tug  says 
she's  near  the  big  corral  some'ers." 

The  hostler  departed  in  the  dust  of  his  tittuping  charges, 
and  Racey  looked  into  the  faces  of  his  two  friends  and 
smiled — one-sidedly,  his  upper  lip  being  bruised  and  puffed 
to  twice  its  normal  size.  Racey's  right  eye  was  thoroughly 
blackened  and  an  abrasion  marked  the  left  side  of  his  jaw. 
There  were  several  scratches  on  his  nose  and  the  knuckles 
of  both  hands  were  skinned. 

"What  hit  yuh?"  asked  Johnny. 

"Skinny  Devinney,  the  station  boss,"  replied  Racey. 

"Don't  blame  him.     What  was  yuh  tryin'  to  do?" 

"I  was  just  arguin'  with  him." 

"Arguin'?" 

"Shore.  I  asks  him  for  a  job  all  so  pretty  and  polite, 
an'  he  says  somethin'  about  not  wantin'  no  feller  in  hair 
pants  a-workin'  for  him.  Then  I  just  naturally  had  to 
argue  with  him." 

Johnny's  eyes  strayed  toward  the  combined  stage  station 
and  express  office.  Below  one  of  the  windows  pieces  of 
broken  glass  and  splintered  sash  littered  the  ground. 

"Looks  like  the  window  got  busted,"  hazarded  Johnny. 

"He  done  it — on  his  way  out,"  explained  Racey.  "He 
didn't  want  to  go,"  he  added  thoughtfully. 

Johnny's  eyes  rested  on  Racey's  battered  features. 

"I  expect,"  he  said  dryly.  "I  notice  he  gave  yuh  a 
job." 

"Yeah,  he  gimme  his.  Yuh  see,  after  he'd  went,  there 
was  the  job  left  an  orphan  an'  there  was  me,  an'  Tug 
Wilson  he  says  it  looked  just  like  Providence.  He  never 
did  like  the  other  feller  anyway.  Me,  I'm  the  station  boss 
myself." 


LAGUERRE  TALKS  135 

"Lucky  for  you  Devinney  didn't  have  a  gun,"  observed 
Johnny.  "Yuh  better  keep  yore  eye  skinned,  Racey. 
She's  just  possible  he  may  organize  with  one  an'  come  back 
a-huntin'  him  his  job." 

"He — he  had  a  gun,"  Racey  said  in  some  embarrass 
ment.  "I  kind  o'  had  to  pry  it  away  from  him  before  he'd 
act  decent  a-tall." 

Laguerre  laughed  delightedly. 

"Didn't  he  try  to  throw  down?"  demanded  Johnny. 

"Oh,  he  tried,"  admitted  Racey. 

"Yuh  bat's-eyed  ol'  son-of-a-gun,"  Johnny  drawled  in 
keenest  admiration. 

"See  yuh  later,"  grinned  Racey.  "Gotta  take  this 
accordeen  to  the  blacksmith.  So  long." 

Johnny  stared  after  Racey,  and  his  brows  drew  together. 

"More  I  think  of  it,"  he  observed  to  Laguerre,  "the  less 
I  like  this  rastlin'  round  with  Skinny  Devinney.  Seems 
like  she  was  kind  of  unnecessary  an'  a  heap  likely  to  come 
high  for  Racey.  He's  only  a  kid,  an'  he's  reckless.  An' 
I've  heard  Skinny  was  a  hard  customer." 

"Le's  go  see  heem,"  was  Laguerre's  suggestion. 

But  the  ex-station-boss  was  not  to  be  found  in  the  Bend. 
Following  the  removal  of  his  gun  from  his  person,  and  his 
person  from  his  job,  Skinny  Devinney  had  saddled  a  horse 
and  pulled  his  freight. 

"An'  I  always  thought  Skinny  was  a  fighter,"  their 
bartending  informant  remarked  with  disgust.  "After 
gettin'  his  cork  pulled  thataway  he  can't  never  show  up  in 

this  town  again,  that's  a  cinch Shore,  but  throat's  a 

leetle  raw  this  mornin'.  I'll  take  a  cigar,  if  yuh  don't 
mind." 

"Help  yoreself.  We'll  take  about  twenty-five  apiece 
ourselves.  I  like  a  good  smoke,  I  do,  an'  I  don't  guess 


136  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

we'll  run  up  on  any  cigars  like  these  here  in  the  Yellow 
Medicine  country." 

"Ridin'  there,  huh?" 

"Between  the  Medicine  an*  Dry  Creek.  Seven  an* 
four-bits?  Here  y'are.  Le's  wander,  Telescope." 

"Good  morning,  Mister  Ramsay." 

It  was  a  gay  and  Sunday  morning  voice  that  spoke,  and 
Johnny,  in  the  act  of  mounting,  slid  his  foot  from  the  stir 
rup  and  turned,  dragging  off  his  hat.  Mrs.  Wallace  smiled 
up  into  his  face  with  eyes  and  mouth. 

"G'mornin',  ma'am,"  said  Johnny,  and  wished  Telescope 
would  go  away. 

But  the  halfbreed  had  no  intention  of  doing  any  such 
thing.  He  sat  quite  still  in  the  saddle,  rolling  a  cigarette, 
and  unobtrusively  observing  the  lady  from  under  his  hat 
brim.  Johnny,  greatly  against  his  will,  was  forced  to  in 
troduce  him.  Laguerre  swept  off  his  hat,  bowed  to  the 
saddle-horn,  and  commented  upon  the  state  of  the  weather. 

The  lady,  with  her  brilliant  friendly  smile,  concurred  as 
to  the  heat,  and  again  turned  her  graceful  head  toward 
Johnny. 

"You  haven't  forgotten  about  coming  to  see  me?"  she 
said  in  a  low  tone. 

"Now,  ma'am,  how  could  I?"  was  Johnny's  answer. 

"To-night?"     The  black  eyes  pleaded. 

"I  thought "  He  jerked  his  head  toward  the 

Broken  Dollar. 

"I'm  not  working  to-night.  I  take  a  vacation  now  and 
then.  This  evening  will  be  then.  Do  come.  I'll  be  all 
alone."  The  black  eyes  pleaded  harder. 

"I'd  shore  like  to.  But  I  can't  to-night.  I  ain't  a-goin* 
to  be  in  town.  I'm  workin'  for  Scotty  now." 

"It  isn't  far  from  the  ranch  if — if  you  really  want  to 


LAGUERRE  TALKS  137 

come."  The  long  curving  lashes  were  lowered  and  she 
was  poking  with  her  parasol  at  a  crack  in  the  sidewalk. 

"It  ain't  case  o'  want,  ma'am,"  protested  Johnny. 
"But  by  to-night  I'll  be  in  Rocket.  To-morrow  me  an* 
my  friend'll  be  over  east  o'  the  Yellow  Medicine  some'ers. 
We'll  work  back  to  the  Flyin'  M  by  way  of  Dry  Creek, 
the  Seven  Lazy  Seven,  an'  Cavalry  Valley.  Two  weeks, 
ma'am,  before  I'll  see  the  Bend  again." 

"Oh,  I  am  sorry,"  said  she;  "but  you'll  come  to  see  me 
when  you  return,  won't  you?" 

"Shore  will." 

Again  the  red  lips  parted  in  their  fascinating  smile. 
She  inclined  head  and  shoulders  in  a  little  bow  that  in 
cluded  Laguerre,  swung  her  parasol  and  strolled  away  along 
the  sidewalk,  a  joy  to  all  beholders. 

"You  know  Mees  Dorothy  Burr,  huh?"  asked  the  half- 
breed,  when  they  had  passed  from  Main  Street  to  the  Fare 
well  trail. 

"Shore,  I  know  her.     Why?" 

"She  un  Slay  dey  was  ride  by  w'ile  you  was  talk  wit'  de 
grande  demoiselle" 

"Yeah."     Outwardly  uninterested. 

""Yeah,  she  look  at  you  leetle,  den  leetle  more,  den  she 
was  look  at  Slay,  un  laugh  un  talk  fas'." 

"Huh."     Still  the  outward  lack  of  interest. 

"Eet  ees  hard  for  drive  two  pony,"  said  Laguerre. 

"What's  drivin'  two  cayuses  gotta  do  with  me,  I'd  like 
to  know?" 

"  I  was  jus'  say  so."  Laguerre  shrugged  .Gallic  shoulders. 
"I  have  been  de  scout,  I  have  leeve  wit'  Enjun.  I  see 
w'at  I  see.  I  be  damfool  eef  I  do  not." 

"Say,  Telescope,  what  yuh  talkin'  about  anyhow?" 

*fl  was  jus'  talk,"  evaded  Laguerre,  dropping  his  off 


I38  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

eyelid.  "You  deed  not  say  you  was  know  dees  Mees' 
Wallace  w'en  I  was  talk  about  her  de  firs'  tarn." 

"Guess  I  must  'a'  forgot.  Don't  make  no  difference, 
does  it?" 

"She  ees  smart,"  Laguerre  side-stepped  neatly. 

"Well?" 

"You  have  tell  her  lak  you  tell  de  bartender  w'ere  we 

go." 

"Shore  I  did.  I  had  to.  We  may  be  trailed.  If  we 
say  before  we  start  where  we're  a-goin'  to,  an'  then  go 
there,  they  won't  be  so  suspicious.  They'll  never  think 
we'd  say  right  out  where  we  was  lookin'  for  evidence,  would 
they  now?" 

"I  understan'.  You  have  walk  een  de  watair  by  tellin' 
de  trut'.  But  deed  I  not  say  dat  lady  she  ees  smart  ?  She 
weel  t'ink  dat  ees  jus'  w'at  you  would  do,  mabbeso." 

"She  ain't  as  smart  as  that,"  Johnny  denied  vigorously. 

"She  ees  damsight  smarter  dan  dat,  my  frien'.  I  tell 
you  dat  lady  ees  hard  for  fool,  bien  sur" 

"Yo're  always  lookin'  on  the  black  side,  y'  ol'  wet 
blanket." 

"Aw  right,  you  weel  see,"  said  Laguerre,  nodding  sagely. 
"Gimme  de  match." 


CHAPTER  XIII 
RIDERS  AT  ROCKET 

JOHNNY'S  face  was  not  wearing  its  usual  expression 
of  cheer  and  well-being  as  its  owner  rode  the  trail 
to  Rocket.  At  times  he  reddened  and  shifted  un 
comfortably  in  the  saddle.  For  the  voice  of  the  turtle 
and  the  squawk  of  Mrs.  Carey's  chicken  kept  tingling  in 
his  ears.  It  did  not  alleviate  his  sense  of  oppression  that 
Miss  Burr  had  passed  unseen  while  he  dallied  with  Mrs. 
Wallace.  Dorothy  would  surely  think  he  had  meant  to 
slight  her.  Of  course  she  would.  He  knew  girls  possessed 
the  objectionable  habit  of  reasoning  things  out  the  wrong 
way.  Not  that  it  made  any  real  difference.  Why  should 
it? 

"W'at  you  swear  for  all  tarn?"  inquired  the  mildly 
curious  halfbreed. 

"I'm  so  hot,"  was  the  sole  explanation  he  got  from 
Johnny. 

Late  in  the  evening  they  reached  that  collection  of  two 
dozen  houses,  three  saloons,  one  store,  and  one  hotel 
known  as  Rocket.  They  were  forced  to  awaken  Dave 
Sinclair,  the  hotel-keeper.  But  he  received  them  joyfully, 
for  they  were  his  friends,  and  set  before  them  cold  beans 
and  fried  ham. 

"Hear  about  the  shootin'  down  at  Farewell?"  asked 
Dave,  humanly  anxious  to  tell  a  good  story. 

"Yeah,"  Johnny  replied. 

139 


140  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

"Tough  on  Lute,"  said  the  disappointed  Dave,  "but 
Whiskey  tells  me  Slim  will  pull  through  all  fine  an*  dandy. 
Good  feller,  Slim." 

"She  ees  all  dat,"  averred  Laguerre. 

"How's  tricks,  Dave?"  Thus  Johnny,  between  stuffed 
mouthfuls. 

"Don't  do  no  good  to  kick." 

"Many  folks  stoppin'  here?" 

"Not  so  many.  Had  Bale  Harper  for  a  week  an'  a 
young  feller  from  the  Anvil — leastwise  he  was  ridin'  that 
brand — for  a  night.  But  both  of  'em  drifted  north  to 
gether.  There  ain't  nobody  but  me  here  now,  an'  you 
fellers.  Guess  that  coffee'd  oughta  be  about  b'iled.  Shore. 
Here  she  is." 

"That  wall  eye  of  Bale's  gives  me  the  creeps,"  observed 
Johnny,  spading  in  the  sugar. 

"She  is  kind  of  gloomersome.  Always  lookin'  where  he 
ain't,  Bale  is.  I've  heard  he  can  shoot  a  few  with  a  Win 
chester,  but  damfino  how  he  does  it,  unless  he  aims  with 
both  eyes  an'  strikes  an'  average  before  he  cuts  loose." 

"Bale's  got  a  li'l  ranch  some'ers,  ain't  he?"  hazarded 
Johnny. 

"Shore  has,  him  an*  Spill  together,"  affirmed  the  guile 
less  Dave.  "Some'ers  back  of  the  Medicine  Mountains 
on  Dry  Creek." 

"She  ain't  much  of  an  outfit,  I  guess." 

"Not  much.  Just  a  few  cows  an'  hosses.  They  don't 
need  steady  lookin'  after." 

"Guess  that  suits  Bale." 

"Shore.  He  ain't  there  a  whole  lot.  Aw,  he's  like  his 
brother  Spill — too  strong  to  work.  How's  Scotty  Mack 
enzie?" 

"Same  old  silvertip.     Got  the  notion  now,  he  has,  that 


RIDERS  AT  ROCKET  141 

a  black-tail  dun  is  the  only  colour  o'  hoss  worth  cinchin'  a 
hull  on.  Course  a  black-tail  dun  is  a  tough,  strong  colour, 
but  she  ain't  the  only  hoss  in  the  world  by  a  jugful.  Me 
personal  I  think  a  heap  of  the  chestnut  with  a  black  stripe. 
Any  black-tail  duns  round  here,  Dave?" 

"Ain't  seen  a  black-tail  dun  in  two  years.  A  buck  was 
ridin'  that  one." 

"Injun,  hey?     Stallion,  was  he?     Old?" 

"Mare,  an'  young." 

"That's  just  as  good.  Maybe  Mister  Warwhoop  would 
sell.  What  was  his  name?" 

"Black  Bear." 

"Fort  Yardley  Reservation?" 

"I  guess.     You  ain't  thinkin'  of  ridin'  there,  are  yuh?" 

"I  ain't  makin'  a  point  of  it,  but  if  I'm  ever  over  toward 
the  Hatchet  Creek  country  I'll  shorely  look  up  Mister 
Black  Bear  an'  see  will  he  sell.  Likely  he  has  though — 
if  she  was  a  good  hoss." 

"She  was  that  all  right — full  o'  life  like  a  charge  o'  giant. 
Droppin'  the  rein  never  did  to  anchor  her.  Black  Bear 
used  to  carry  a  rope  for  that  special." 

"He  did,  huh?  Must  'a'  been  a  reg'lar  hoss.  Coffee 
pot  dry,  Dave?" 

Thuddy-thud,  thuddy-thud,  a  pony  was  being  loped  along 
the  trail  from  the  south.  Before  Johnny  finished  filling 
his  cup  the  pony  had  stopped  in  front  of  the  hotel.  There 
was  no  immediate  sound  of  the  rider's  dismounting,  and 
Johnny  saw  that  the  man  was  looking  into  the  dining  room 
through  the  open  doorway.  The  horse  moved  forward  a 
step  or  two. 

"Lookin'  through  the  window  now,"  Johnny  told  him 
self,  stirring  rapidly.  "He  shore  is  one  careful  gent." 

Twenty  seconds  later  there  was  a  creak  and  a  thump 


i42  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

as  the  cautious  one  dismounted.  He  entered  with  spurs 
a-jingle,  hooked  out  a  chair  with  his  toe  and  plumped  him 
self  down  opposite  Johnny.  The  latter's  nerves  were 
under  too  excellent  control  to  permit  a  start  of  surprise. 
He  looked  pleasantly  instead  into  the  face  of  the  tall  red 
headed  stranger  who  had  killed  Mat  Neville. 

"Howdy,  gents,"  nodded  the  red-head  to  the  three  men, 
displaying  as  he  slightly  smiled  the  canines  at  the  left  side 
of  his  mouth.  "I'm  in  luck.  I  shore  never  expected  to 
get  anythin'  to  eat  at  this  time  o'  night." 

"Yore  expectations  may  be  right  at  that,"  said  Dave 
Sinclair  sourly. 

"Oh,  I  got  money." 

The  stranger  laughed  in  sinister  fashion  and  spun  a  silver 
dollar  on  the  oilcloth.  His  eyes  gleamed  yellowly  in  the 
shadow  of  his  high-crowned  white  hat. 

"I'd  shore  like  some  hot  coffee,"  he  added  softly. 
" Stranger" — to  Johnny — "will  yuh  shove  them  beans  this 
way  so  they'll  be  all  ready  when  my  plate  an'  trimmin's 
arrive." 

"This  here  runnin'  a  hotel  ain't  a  business,"  gloomed 
Dave  on  his  way  to  the  kitchen,  "it's  a  exercise." 

The  red-head  winked  solemnly  at  Johnny  and  Laguerre 
and  planted  bony  elbows  on  the  table. 

"Cool  night,"  he  remarked  genially,  smiling  his  dog- 
oothed  smile,  turning  his  blank,  fixed  stare  on  Johnny. 

The  eyelids  dropped  a  trifle.  The  man  passed  a  hand 
across  his  hairless  face.  "Damn  cool  night,"  he  added, 
and  began  to  spoon  beans  from  the  dish  to  his  plate. 

Johnny  wondered  whether  the  red-head  had  recognized 
him  and  Laguerre.  He  determined  to  find  out. 

"She's  a  long  ride  from  Farewell  kind  of,"  observed 
Johnny. 


RIDERS  AT  ROCKET  143 

"Shore,"  said  the  red-head,  looking  up  from  his  plate, 
"I  recognized  yuh — both  of  yuh.  I  don't  forget  faces. 
Can't  afford  to.  Yuh'll  notice  I'm  keepin'  away  from 
Farewell — now." 

"Meanin'P"  Johnny  asked  easily. 

"Meanin'  that  I  might  come  back.  Yuh  never  can 
tell." 

"That's  right.     Yuh  can't." 

Johnny  and  Laguerre  left  the  red-head  to  his  beans  and 
departed  bedward.  In  whispers,  at  the  open  window  of 
their  room,  they  debated  the  significance  of  the  red-head's 
arrival.  Laguerre  was  of  the  opinion  that  it  disposed  of 
Johnny's  theory  that  the  man  had  been  concerned  in  the 
murder  of  Lute  Holloway  and  the  wounding  of  the  mar 
shal. 

"Eef  she  was  meex  up  een  dat  she  was  not  come  w'ere 
de  deputy  can  fin'  heem,"  pronounced  the  halfbreed. 

"That's  just  what  he  would  do,"  declared  Johnny. 
"He's  no  fool,  an'  besides  he  dunno  he's  suspected." 

"W'y  she  not  know?  You  jus'  say  she  was  no  fool. 
She  guess  eet  easy,  I  tell  you." 

Thus  they  argued  in  a  circle,  after  the  fashion  of  detec 
tives,  amateur  and  professional,  and  each  went  to  bed 
convinced  that  the  other  fellow  did  not  know  what  he  was 
talking  about. 

In  the  morning  Johnny  was  up  very  betimes.  He  first 
visited  the  bar-room,  where,  in  a  corner,  the  red-head's 
saddle  lay.  Johnny  dragged  the  Winchester  from  the 
worn  scabbard  under  the  near  fender,  found  the  caliber 
to  be  forty-five  ninety,  and  disappointedly  slid  the  rifle 
back.  Then  he  went  to  the  corral  and  carefully  inspected 
the  red-head's  horse,  an  unbranded  blue,  the  same  animal 
on  which  he  had  ridden  away  from  Farewell.  With  due 


144  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

consideration  for  eyes,  prying  and  otherwise,  Johnny, 
while  apparently  having  great  difficulty  in  bridling  his 
own  astonished  pony,  forced  the  red-head's  blue  to  skip 
briskly  hither  and  yon. 

Clumsily  Johnny  buckled  the  throat-latch  and  reached 
one  hand  down  into  a  side  pocket  of  his  trousers.  When 
he  withdrew  the  hand,  a  handkerchief  and  several  pieces  of 
small  change  came  with  it.  The  handkerchief  went  to 
wipe  his  face.  The  small  change  bounded  gaily  in  all 
directions.  Swearing  heartily,  Johnny  stooped  and  set 
about  retrieving  his  wealth.  When  the  last  coin  was  in 
his  pocket  and  he  straightened  he  had  an  excellent  working 
knowledge  of  the  size,  shape  and  appearance  of  the  four 
shoe-marks  of  the  brandless  blue. 

In  order  to  carry  out  the  illusion  he  threw  on  and  cinched 
his  saddle  and  led  his  horse  to  the  hitching-rail  in  front 
of  the  hotel.  Then  he  went  in  to  breakfast.  The  red 
head,  his  mouth  a-yawn,  came  down  as  Johnny  and  La- 
guerre  were  finishing. 

"Coin'  my  way,  gents?"  he  asked,  rubbing  his  tousled 
red  hair. 

"If  yo're  goin*  south,"  Johnny  said  smilelessly. 

"Now  that's  shore  a  calamity,"  mourned  the  other. 
"Fm  travelin'  north,  but  I  shore  hoped  for  company." 

While  Laguerre  was  catching  up  his  mount  Johnny  sat 
slouched  in  his  saddle  and  smoked  and  watched  an  ap 
proaching  dust-cloud  on  the  trail  they  were  to  take.  By 
the  time  Laguerre  was  mounted  Johnny  saw  within  the 
dust-cloud  the  hazy  outlines  of  three  horsemen. 

"Looks  like  Bill  Stahl's  boss?"  suggested  Johnny. 

"She  ees  Beel  Stahl,"  declared  Laguerre. 

Humanly  curious,  they  waited  in  front  of  the  hotel. 

"Jack  Murgatroyd,  too,"  said  Johnny. 


RIDERS  AT  ROCKET  145 

Murgatroyd  was  one  of  the  sheriff's  two  deputies,  a 
silent,  swarthy  man  with  eyes  small  and  bright  as  black 
beads. 

"The  middle  one's  wearin'  the  come-alongs,"  amplified 
Johnny.  "Know  him?" 

Laguerre  shook  his  head.  The  trio  rode  up  and  the 
sheriff  and  his  deputy  dismounted.  The  officers  nodded 
and  gave  brief  greeting  to  the  two  stray  men  and  turned 
to  help  down  their  handcuffed  prisoner.  Before  the  three 
could  enter  the  hotel  Johnny  contrived  to  catch  the  sheriffs 
eye. 

"Take  him  in  an'  give  him  his  breakfast,  Jack,"  said  the 
sheriff  instantly.  "I'll  be  in  later." 

Sheriff  Stahl  picked  up  the  bridles  of  the  three  horses  and 
led  them  round  the  corner  of  the  hotel. 

"Gimme  a  lift,  will  yuh,  Johnny?"  he  called  back. 

"We  both  will,"  cried  Johnny. 

"This  is  shore  neighbourly,"  said  the  sheriff,  his  china- 
blue  eyes  twinkling,  when  they  relieved  him  of  two  horses. 

"Ain't  it?"  grinned  Johnny.     "Who's  yore  friend?" 

"  Murderer  named  Hen  Riley.  Killed  a  barkeep  over 
at  Single.  He  didn't  really  mean  to  do  it.  He  was  drunk 
at  the  time  an'  nobody  liked  the  barkeep  anyway,  so  I  guess 
Hen  '11  get  off  all  right." 

"I  thought  maybe  he  might  be  one  o'  the  bandits." 

"Not  Hen.  He's  a  prospector.  Wouldn't  hurt  a 
flea — when  he's  sober." 

"The  fellah  that  killed  Mat  Neville's  inside."  Johnny 
jerked  his  head  toward  the  hotel. 

"He  is!" 

"Shore  as  yo're  a  foot  high.  Yuh'll  find  him  in  the 
dinin'-room  eatin'  beans  by  the  mile." 

"Wait  here  till  I  come  back,"  ordered  the  sheriff. 


146  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

Bill  Stahl  entered  the  hotel  by  way  of  the  kitchen. 
Within  three  minutes  he  returned,  rolling  a  sorrowful 
cigarette. 

"Dunno  him  a-tall,"  he  informed  the  two.  "An'  he 
don't  remind  me  o'  nothin'  or  nobody  I  ever  seen  before." 

"That's  tough,"  said  Johnny  simply.  "I  guess  we'll 
be  weavin'  along,  Bill." 

But,  as  they  wove,  they  stopped  at  the  Blue  Front  Store 
and  asked  for  forty  sixty-five  cartridges. 

"Don't  keep  'em,"  the  proprietor  told  them.  "No  call 
for  them  half  an'  half  calibers.  Forty-five  ninety  an* 
thirty-eights  all  I  got." 

"Djever  keep  forty  sixty-fives?"  persisted  Johnny. 

"Not  since  I  been  keepin'  store  here,  an'  that's  more'n 
three  years." 

This  was  final  and  seemed  to  dispose  of  Rocket  as  an 
ammunition  dump  for  the  bandit  with  the  odd-calibered 
rifle.  Johnny  and  Laguerre  went  into  the  street  and  picked 
up  their  bridles.  Before  they  could  mount  a  hatless  man 
on  a  pinto  dashed  round  the  corner  of  the  hotel  corral. 
Somewhere  behind  the  hotel  sounded  the  smacking  thud  of 
a  six-shooter.  The  hatless  man,  looking  from  side  to  side, 
raced  his  pony  down  the  street.  He  glimpsed  Johnny 
and  Laguerre  and  cut  in  toward  them  instantly.  The 
rider's  mouth  was  open,  his  eyes  were  staring,  his  scanty 
gray  hair  flickered  in  the  breeze.  He  looked  frightened. 
He  probably  was. 

Another  horseman  swung  past  the  corner  of  the  hotel 
corral.  He  threw  down  with  a  jerk.  Johnny  and  La 
guerre,  dragging  their  horses  by  the  bridles,  scrambled 
across  the  sidewalk.  Bang  !  The  pony  of  the  pursued 
fell  on  its  knees.  The  gray-haired  man  tumbled  over  the 
saddle-horn,  rolled  to  one  side,  struggled  to  his  feet,  and 


RIDERS  AT  ROCKET  147 

ran  toward  Johnny  and  Laguerre,  wildly  flapping  his 
arms. 

"Gents!  Gents!"  he  gasped,  his  eyes  now  fairly  starting 
out  of  his  head.  "Listen!  I  can  tell!— 

Bang  !  The  accurate  six-shooter  of  his  pursuer  put  in 
its  period.  The  expression  of  the  gray-haired  man  under 
went  a  change  in  a  breath.  From  extreme  fright  it  veered 
to  one  of  intense  surprise.  The  upraised  leg  came  down. 
But  there  was  no  strength  in  the  knee-joint,  and  the  man 
fell  forward  on  the  ground  in  the  grotesque  attitude  of  one 
praying  in  a  mosque.  There  he  remained,  quite  still,  and 
thin  trickles  of  blood  seeped  downward  from  a  hole  in  each 
temple  and  soaked  into  the  dust  of  the  street. 

Johnny  and  Laguerre  returned  across  the  sidewalk. 
The  man  with  the  six-shooter  rode  up  and  dismounted. 
He  was  a  tall  young  man  with  alert,  animal  eyes,  prominent 
jawbones,  and  a  silver  star.  Johnny  knew  him.  He  was 
Chance  Blaisdell,  Sheriff  Stand's  other  deputy. 

From  saloons,  houses,  the  store  and  the  hotel,  folk  came 
hurriedly  and  gathered  about  the  deputy  sheriff  and  the 
poor  huddled  thing  that  lay  at  his  feet.  Blaisdell  non 
chalantly  threw  out  the  cylinder  of  his  six-shooter,  ejected 
the  spent  shells  and  reloaded.  Sheriff  Stahl,  wiping  his 
mustache  on  his  sleeve,  pushed  through  the  silent  crowd 
and  stood  beside  the  deputy. 

"What's  the  trouble,  Chance?"  he  asked,  his  eyes  on 
the  body  of  the  dead  man. 

Chance  gave  a  perceptible  start.  Then  he  laughed 
shortly. 

"Didn't  know  you  was  in  town,  Bill,"  he  said.  "Bein* 
as  yo're  here  it'll  save  me  makin'  out  a  report.  This  feller 
got  away  from  me,  an'  I  had  to  down  him." 

"Who  was  he?" 


i48  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

"One  o'  the  hold-ups  that  robbed  the  Wells-Fargo  office 
at  Cutter  night  before  last." 

"Huh?"     The  crowd  murmured  surprisedly. 

"Shore.  Didn't  yuh  know?  Yep.  The  gang — they 
was  three  of  'em — blowed  in  the  safe,  creased  the  agent 
twice  in  one  leg,  shot  the  gun  out  of  his  hand  an'  got  away 
with  twenty-five  hundred  dollars.  Me,  I'm  sleepin'  at 
the  hotel  with  that  brand-blotter  I'm  takin'  down  to 

Farewell  for  Jake  Rule,  an*  I  hopped  out  immediate 

Shore,  he's  safe.  Barkeep's  guardin'  him  with  a  shot-gun. 
I  rustled  a  posse  an'  we  trailed  them  bouncin'  jiggers 
toward  the  Emigrant  Hills.  Half-way  there  they  separ 
ated  an'  we  done  the  same.  Yesterday  afternoon  I  was 
scoutin'  up  the  country  round  Crow  Creek,  an'  I  jumped 
this  here  feller. 

"I  throwed  down  on  him,  an'  he  tried  to  get  away.  I 
dropped  his  hoss,  an'  he  caves.  I  herds  him  along  to 
Cooley's  ranch,  got  him  this  pinto  an'  brought  him  along. 
I  didn't  tie  him  or  nothin' — he  acted  so  like  he  was  sick 
I  felt  sorry  for  him.  Would  yuh  believe  it,  Bill,  he  got 
away  from  me  back  there  on  the  woods  a  piece  an'  I  didn't 
come  up  on  him  till  he  surged  in  back  o'  the  corral.  I 
missed  him  the  first  shot,  but  I  shore  got  his  hoss  the  second. 
That  didn't  satisfy  him.  He  kept  right  on  tryin'  to  jump 
the  reservation,  an'  I  had  to  down  him.  I'll  bet  yuh,"  he 
added  regretfully,  "he'd  'a'  had  a  lot  of  interestin'  stuff 
to  tell  at  the  trial." 

"Yuh'd  oughta  been  more  careful,"  chided  the  sheriff. 
"Next  time  you  drill  a  leg  or  somethin'.  It's  just  as  good, 
an'  don't  hinder  the  feller's  talkin'  a  little  bit." 

"Maybe  I  was  a  little  excited,"  admitted  the  deputy. 

"Don't  let  it  happen  again,  then.  Howdja  know  he's 
one  o'  the  hold-ups?  Follow  his  trail  alia  time?" 


RIDERS  AT  ROCKET  149 

"Naw,  I  lost  his  trail  a  heap.  But  we  don't  need  tracks 
for  evidence  with  this  jigger.  I  found  some  o*  the  express 
money  on  him  in  a  busted-open  Wells-Fargo  package  an* 
I  found  one  o'  Old  Man  Fane's  buckskin  bags  with  some 
dust  left  in  her,  too." 

"Where's  the  package  an'  the  bag?" 

The  deputy  fumbled  importantly  in  a  saddle  pocket, 
drew  out  a  torn  packet  that  gave  forth  a  chinking  sound, 
and  a  limp,  buckskin  bag  that  closed  with  a  drawstring 
and  bulged  at  one  end. 

The  sheriff  and  as  much  of  the  crowd  as  could  find  space 
— Johnny  and  Laguerre  were  among  the  first  to  find  that 
space — examined  the  evidence.  The  torn  packet  was  in 
dubitably  a  Wells-Fargo  express  package  designed  to  con 
tain,  as  indicated  by  the  figures,  five  hundred  dollars  in 
gold.  There  were  in  it  precisely  twenty-five  double  eagles. 
The  buckskin  bag,  when  the  sheriff  had  slacked  off  the 
drawstring,  was  found  to  contain  between  three  and  four 
ounces  of  gold  dust.  Marked  on  the  side,  in  crude  letter 
ing,  were  the  initials  L.  F.  Old  Man  Fane's  given  name 
had  been  Lucius. 

"Looks  like  he  done  it  all  right,"  chattily  remarked  the 
red-head,  craning  his  long  neck  over  the  hats  of  two  other 
men. 

"Looks  are  shore  queer  things — sometimes,"  drawled 
Johnny  Ramsay,  in  whose  mind  the  germ  of  an  idea  had 
suddenly  been  born. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

BECAUSE 

W HEN'S  Chance  goin'  to  send  my  pinto  back?" 
demanded  querulous  Mr.  Cooley,  combing  his 
whiskers. 

"He  didn't  say,"  Johnny  told  him.  "Shore  y'ain't 
missed  any  cayuses?" 

"I  should  say  not.  Which  if  I  had  yuh  could  hear  me 
yellin'  from  here  to  the  Yellowstone.  Naw  sir,  the  whole 
seventeen  was  in  the  corral  this  mornin'.  I  counted  'em. 
Didja  see  the  prisoner?" 

"Shore." 

"Hard  customer,  an'  kind  o'  old,  Chance  said.  It's 
about  time  them  road  agents  was  beginnin'  to  be  caught. 
Shore  too  bad  Chance  had  to  down  him.  I " 

"Didn't  you  see  him — the  prisoner?" 

"Me?  No.  Chance  he  left  him  tied  an'  handcuffed 
to  a  tree  near  the  Twin  Springs  while  Chance  rid  over 
for  a  hoss  for  him.  I  told  Chance  to  ride  by  here  on 
his  way  to  Rocket  sois  the  wife  could  see  a  real  road 
agent — she  don't  have  much  fun,  Mary  don't — but  I 
guess  Chance  was  in  a  hurry.  I  ain't  seen  him  since. 
Say,  yo're  shore  that  paint  pony  was  in  good  health, 
huh?" 

"Yo're  shore  y'ain't  seen  any  strangers,  are  yuh?" 
dodged  Johnny. 

"No,  I  ain't.  Say,  they  ain't  nothin*  happened  to  that 

150 


BECAUSE  151 

pinto,  did  they?"  Lively  suspicion  brightened  Mr. 
Cooley's  faded  blue  eyes. 

"Well "  hesitated  Johnny. 

"What  happened  him,  huh?"  Genuine  alarm  on  the 
part  of  Mr.  Cooley. 

"Chance  sort  o'  killed  yore  pinto  by  mistake,"  was 
Johnny's  answer. 

"-  -  Chance  Blaisdell  to !"  whooped  Mr. 

Cooley,  hopping  with  rage.  "My  pinto!  I'll  learn  the 
— !  My  pinto!  By  -  -  I'll  take  it  out  o' 
Chance's  hide!  What 'n  —  —  does  he  think  he  is,  shootin' 
other  folks'  bosses !  I'll  make  the  county  pay  for  that  boss ! 
By-  -I  will!" 

Having  extracted  all  possible  information  from  Mr. 
Cooley  they  left  that  bereft  gentleman  to  enjoy  his  woe 
in  private.  But  they  could  hear  his  heartfelt  curses  for 
quite  a  while. 

From  Cooley's  ranch  they  rode  to  Hall's,  a  small  ranch 
east  of  the  Anvil.  But  no  one  at  Hall's  had  seen  any 
strangers.  Nor  were  any  of  the  horses  missing. 

At  the  Anvil,  as  was  to  be  expected,  their  luck  was  sim 
ilar.  The  foreman  told  them  what  he  had  told  Jake  Rule's 
posse.  They  rode  on  to  the  B  bar  B.  "Baldy"  Barbee, 
the  genial  old  citizen,  received  them  joyously,  pressed  upon 
them  food  and  whiskey,  but — neither  he  nor  his  men  had 
cut  the  trails  of  any  strangers,  and  all  the  B  bar  B  horses 
were  accounted  for. 

From  the  B  bar  B  to  Dogville  is  a  scant  half-day's  ride. 
So  Johnny  and  Laguerre  rode  to  Dogville.  They  departed 
as  they  came — none  the  wiser. 

"S'pose  we  might  as  well  hit  for  the  Yellow  Medicine," 
said  Johnny. 

"Shore,"   grunted    Laguerre.      "Funny    ting    nobody 


152  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

lose  de  pony.     Dem  hol'up   shore  mus'  have  de  strong 
hoss." 

"They  must  have,"  drawled  Johnny.  "What's  the 
use  o'  ridin'  this  trail,  Telescope?  If  we  turn  off  here  an* 
head  straight  for  Longhorn  Mountain  an'  then  swing  north 
east  we'll  cross  the  Bend  trail  'way  north  o'  Cutter  an' 
strike  the  Yellow  Medicine  south  o'  Big  Tepee.  Ought  to 
save  us  a  good  thirty  mile." 

Ridge  and  wooded  valley,  mountain  and  wash  and  draw, 
passed  beneath  their  horses'  feet  and  they  came  at  last  to  a 
brook  a  few  miles  south  of  Cooley's  ranch,  where  the  moun 
tain  ash  flaunted  its  bunches  of  gaudy  berries  above  a  riot 
of  box-elder  bushes.  The  tired  horses  thrust  hot  noses 
bit  under  in  the  water  and  the  men  crooked  their  knees 
round  their  saddle-horns  and  rolled  cigarettes. 

"Somethin's  dead  round  here,"  observed  Johnny, 
flirting  a  blackened  match  into  the  bushes. 

A  little  breeze  got  up  and  blew  among  the  box-elders. 

"Somethin'  shore  is  dead  a  whole  lot,"  amplified  Johnny, 
wrinkling  an  offended  nose. 

"Over  dere  beyond  dem  mountain  ash,"  Laguerre  said. 

Breathing  through  their  mouths  they  rode  beyond  the 
ash  trees.  They  saw  the  cause  of  the  nauseous  odour. 
The  cause  was  a  dead  gray  horse  in  full  bloom.  Saddled 
and  bridled  it  lay  there  a  loathly  thing  in  the  sunlight. 
Seven  gorged  crows  sat  upon  the  body  and  stared  torpidly 
at  the  intruders.  Laguerre  waved  an  arm.  Cawing 
raucous  protest,  the  birds  flapped  heavily  away. 

"Legs  ain't  broken  or  nothing,"  observed  Johnny,  in 
specting  the  horse  with  a  professional  eye.  "Good  hoss, 
too.  H  L  brand.  Ain't  been  dead  more'n  a  week." 

"Hot  weadair  for  tell  sartain  shore,"  said  Laguerre 
critically,  "but  she  ees  less  dead  dan  a  week  I  tink,  me."  . 


BECAUSE  153 

"  Maybe  she's  the  hoss  o'  the  old  feller  Chance  downed. 
Didn't  he  say  he  jumped  him  near  Crow  Creek  an'  had  to 
kill  his  hoss?  Shore  he  did.  An'  right  now  from  here  to 
the  creek  ain't  more'n  a  few  miles.  This  here's  the  hoss  all 
right." 

"Odder  hoss  been  here  too." 

"Yeah?" 

"Shore.  Two — tree — four  hoss  was  tie  here  to  dem 
mountain  ash." 

He  pointed  toward  some  trees  ten  yards  off. 

"How  long  ago?"  asked  Johnny. 

"I  can  not  tell  dat.  You  know  dat  lightnin*  we  see  un 
dat  t'undair  we  hear  'way  'way  yondair  een  de  nort'eas* 
las'  night?  Well,  den,  dat  storm  she  come  ovair  dees 
plass — see  w'ere  de  rain  was  t'row  leetle  mud  on  dead  hoss 
— un  she  wash  'way  heap  o'  sign.  But  she  leave  'nough 
to  show  dere  was  four  hoss  tie  to  dem  ash." 

Johnny  rode  forward  and  leaned  over  the  saddle-horn, 
his  eyes  on  the  ground. 

"Not  a  hoofmark,"  he  mourned,  "an'  me  with  a  photo 
graph  in  my  mind  o'  every  one  o'  that  blue's  shoes." 

"De  redhead  she  was  not  een  dat  beezness  at  Cuttair 
mabbeso,"  cheered  Laguerre,  who  had  dismounted  and 
was  examining  closely  the  trees  to  which  the  four  horses 
had  been  tied. 

"Maybe  not,"  gloomed  Johnny. 

"One  o'  dese  pony  was  tie  wit'  de  rope,"  said  Laguerre, 
pulling  several  threads  of  manila  from  the  bark  of  one  of 
the  trees. 

"Blacktaildun?" 

"Dunno.     Don'  see  no  hair." 

"Must  be  him.  But  Chance  didn't  say  a  word  about 
jumpin'  five  men.  He  only  said  one." 


154  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

"  Dey  was  not  all  here  den,  mabbeso.  De  sign  does  not 
say  de  four  odder  boss  was  bere  w'en  dat  gray  was 
keel." 

"Come  to  think  of  it,  if  they  had  been  here  Chance 
Blaisdell  would  'a'  been  shot  shore.  He'd  'a'  cashed  right 
there,  no  two  ways  about  it." 

"Chance  she  say  dere  was  t'ree  men  een  dat  Cuttair 
beezness.  Here  ees  five  cayuse — de  sign  o'  four  un  one 
dead." 

"Maybe  this  dead  one  was  one  o'  the  four." 

"I  do  not  tink  she  was,  me.  Look  how  she  was  head  for 
dem  tree  w'ere  de  four  was  tie  w'en  she  was  keel.  Eef  she 
was  one  o'  de  four  she  would  head  away  from  de  tree." 

"Maybe  the  old  feller  was  ridin'  away  from  here  an* 
seen  Chance  an'  turned  back  with  Chance  on  his  trail." 

"Ah,"  exclaimed  Laguerre  in  triumph.  "W'en  a  man 
ees  chasse  he  ride  fas'  he  can.  Look  de  ground  behin*  de 
dead  boss.  Sof,  you  see.  Well,  den,  eef  de  boss  was 
gallop  hees  hoofmark  was  show,  bien  sur.  She  was  be 
drive  een  so  deep  she  was  stay  dere  eef  she  rain  all  day 
steady.  Un  I  know  she  was  not  rain  more  dan  one — two 
hour,  un  dere  ees  no  mark.  Dat  show  de  gray  boss  was 
walk  to  dees  plass.  She  was  stand  steel  or  walk  w'en  she 
was  keel.  Now  you  tink  de  ol'  man  was  ride  heem,  huh  ?" 

"I  dunno,"  Johnny  said  helplessly.  "I  dunno  what  to 
think.  She's  one  puzzle.  That's  a  good  saddle  an'  bridle 
on  that  gray  boss,"  he  added  with  apparent  irrelevance. 

"I  don't  want  'em,"  declared  Laguerre. 

"Me  neither,  but  it  seems  kind  of  a  pity  to  leave  'em 
there  to  be  all  chewed  up.  Them  crows  ain't  done  the 
leather  a  bit  o'  good  already." 

So  Johnny,  holding  his  breath,  cut  the  cinches  and  throat 
latch  and  freed  the  bloated  body  of  saddle  and  bridle. 


BECAUSE  155 

He  tossed  the  saddle  into  the  convenient  fork  of  a  mountain 
ash. 

""You'll  nevair  see  eet  again/'  observed  Laguerre,  eyeing 
his  comrade  curiously. 

"I  know,  but  they's  silver  conchas  on  that  saddle  an' 
bridle,  an'  real  hand-carved  leather.  Yuh  don't  see  that 
kind  every  day.  Maybe  they'll  help  to  run  down  the  rest 
o'  the  road  agents.  An'  if  the  saddle  is  able  to  do  us  any 
good  there  she  is  safe  in  that  ash  fork  where  we  can  find 
her  again." 

"S'pose  anudder  man  fin'  her." 

"Small  loss.  I  know  what  she  looks  like.  An'  anyway 
I  don't  guess  nobody  '11  find  her  right  soon.  Yuh'll  notice 
that  twenty  feet  away  them  other  branches  an'  trees  hide 
her  pretty  complete." 

"But  w'at  you  do  wit'  de  bridle  dere  on  de  ground?" 

"That  bridle's  goin'  to  travel  with  me  inside  the  slicker 
on  the  back  of  my  saddle.  That's  right,  laugh!  You 
think  you  know  it  all,  don't  yuh  ?  Well,  you'll  see  where 
she's  just  a  li'l  thing  like  this  bridle  that'll  maybe  trip  'em 
all  up." 


CHAPTER  XV 
TARGET  PRACTISE 

KDING  with  all  care  for  the  strength  of  their 
mounts — there  might  be  desperate  need  of  that 
strength  later — they  came  at  last  to  where  the  tall 
cone  of  Big  Teepee  Mountain  rears  its  timberless  top  above 
the  Yellow  Medicine.  Yet  they  did  not  swing  north  along 
the  river.  They  had  decided  to  visit  the  ranch  of  Bale 
Harper,  and  they  held  on  due  east  toward  the  Medicine 
Mountains  and  Dry  Creek.  Dave  Sinclair,  in  his  mention 
of  the  ranch,  had  not  definitely  located  the  place.  But  the 
range  of  the  Medicines  is  not  more  than  a  hundred  miles 
long,  and  the  flat  country  between  the  mountains  and  the 
creek,  even  at  the  widest  of  the  stream's  many  loops,  is  a 
short  five  miles  across. 

In  places  the  creek  runs  through  the  tangles  of  box-elder 
and  sumac  at  the  very  base  of  the  long  slopes  where  the 
bull  pine  and  the  spruce  grow  in  a  sprawling  confusion  of 
clumps  and  patches.  The  Indians,  those  that  are  allowed 
off  the  reservation,  shun  the  Medicine  Mountains  with  a 
great  enthusiasm.  For,  in  their  simple  aboriginal  way, 
they  believe  that  the  eternal  sound  of  the  wind  as  it  griev 
ously  sighs  and  soughs  through  the  pines  that  crowd  the 
narrow  canons  is  the  outward  expression  of  the  spirits  of 
their  ancestors.  In  common  with  more  enlightened  folk 
they  greatly  fear  such  spirits,  especially  when  the  sportive 
shades  gambol  and  frolic  among  the  tree-tops. 

156 


TARGET  PRACTISE  157 

On  a  cool  and  blowy  morning  the  two  stray  men  saw 
the  shallow  waters  of  Dry  Creek  a-shine  in  the  sunlight 
beyond  the  fringing  cottonwoods.  When  they  and  their 
horses  had  drunk  long  and  deep  they  rode  northward  be 
tween  the  mountains  and  the  river. 

Occasionally  they  saw  cattle.  The  brand  was  B  H. 
Several  times  they  saw  unbranded  three-and-four-year-olds 
following  their  mothers. 

"Looks  like  friend  Bale  was  kind  oj  careless,"  observed 
Johnny.  ''That  makes  the  ninth  over  two  years  old. 
Bull  too,  that  one." 

"De  way  de  cow  she  sell  now,  dat  mak  hunder  tirty — 
hunder  forty  dollar  run  roun'  loose — not  even  de  earmark." 

"It'd  be  a  pickup  for  some  gent.  Guess  Dave  spoke 
the  truth  when  he  said  Bale  didn't  fuss  round  his  ranch  a 
whole  lot.  Still,  yuh'd  think  he'd  have  a  round-up  once 
in  a  while." 

The  sun  was  high  on  the  following  day  when  they  heard, 
beyond  some  cottonwoods  standing  above  a  thicket  of  box- 
elders,  the  sudden  excited  barking  of  a  dog.  They  skirted 
the  box-elders,  rode  through  the  cottonwoods,  and  saw 
across  a  flat  a  log  ranch-house  and  stockaded  corral  backed 
by  tall  pines. 

The  flat  was  a  long  two  hundred  yards  in  width.  In  the 
middle  of  it  a  small  yellow  dog  faced  them  with  set  legs 
and  barked  out  his  little  soul  in  shrill  fury.  On  a  bench 
outside  the  door  of  the  ranch-house  a  man  sat  and  cleaned 
a  Winchester.  At  least  there  was  a  rifle  across  his  knees 
and  he  was  industriously  swabbing  out  the  breech  with  a 
rag.  The  man  eyed  them  steadily  as  they  advanced  and 
did  not  cease  to  swab. 

"Shut  up,  Biscuit!"  called  the  man  on  the  bench. 

Instantly  the  yellow  dog  ceased  to  shriek,  loped  to  the 


158  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

bench  and  sat  down  at  the  man's  feet.  Johnny  waved  a 
friendly  arm.  The  man  waved  back,  dropped  his  rag, 
clacked-to  the  lever,  and  laid  the  Winchester  across  his 
knees.  Johnny  noted  that  he  did  not  lower  the  hammer  to 
safety.  He  wondered  if  there  was  a  cartridge  in  the  cham 
ber.  There  are  great  possibilities  in  a  man  with  a  cocked 
rifle  in  his  lap. 

And  now  they  were  close  enough  to  recognize  the  sharp- 
featured  face  in  the  dark  shadow  of  the  hat.  Johnny's 
eyes  widened.  The  man  was  Bale  Harper's  brother,  Spill, 
he  of  the  sandy  hair  and  mean  expression. 

"Howdy,"  said  Johnny  gravely,  stopping  his  horse  in 
front  of  Harper. 

"Howdy/'  returned  the  amiable  Spill,  his  little  eyes  flick 
ering  between  the  faces  of  Johnny  and  Laguerre. 

It  was  notable  that  Spill's  nimble  eyes  never  squarely 
encountered  those  of  another.  Their  roving  gaze  was  as 
elusive  as  a  handful  of  smoke.  Johnny,  slouching  side- 
wise  in  the  saddle,  rolled  a  slow  cigarette  and  silently  and 
vainly  strove  to  engage  those  quick  and  dodging  eyes. 

"Got  a  match,  Harper?"  he  inquired  gently. 

"Shore,"  replied  Spill,  and  took  one  from  his  hatband. 

"Good  layout  yuh  got  here,"  observed  Johnny,  when  the 
cigarette  was  going  well. 

"Yeah,"  was  the  indifferent  reply. 

"Bale's  ranch,  ain't  it?"  persisted  Johnny. 

"Mine  an'  his."     Accompaniment  of  an  elaborate  yawn. 

"We  knowed  yuh  had  a  ranch  over  this  way.  We  was 
hopin'  to  find  it.  Kind  o'  thought  we'd  spend  one  civilized 
night  anyway." 

"Yeah." 

Johnny  hurdled  this  without  a  stagger  and  kept  right 
on. 


TARGET  PRACTISE  159 

"Seen  any  Flyin'  M  bosses  around  here?" 

"No,  I  ain't!"     Sharply. 

"No  offense,"  said  Johnny  mildly.  "I  was  just  won- 
derin'.  Yuh  see,  we're  scoutin'  after  a  passel  of  our  hosses. 
A  whole  heap  of  'em  has  done  strayed  lately." 

"Yeah."  Further  bored  indifference  on  the  part  of 
Mr.  Harper. 

""Yeah,"  echoed  Johnny,  beginning  to  find  the  art  of 
conversation  a  very  boggy  ford. 

Sounded  then  the  abrupt  scuffle  of  boot  soles  on  the 
floor  of  the  ranch-house,  and  a  lean  and  craggy  person 
appeared  in  the  doorway.  He  wore  two  black  eyes,  a 
scratched  and  puffy  nose  and  a  genial  expression.  In 
one  hand  was  a  chunkof  bacon,  in  the  other  a  butcher  knife. 
Known  among  men  as  Skinny  Devinney,  he  was  numbered 
in  the  list  of  acquaintances  of  both  Mr.  Ramsay  and  Mr. 
Laguerre. 

"Howdy,  gents,"  cried  the  ex-station-boss  heartily. 
"Light  an'  rest  yore  hats.  Dinner's  most  ready.  All  I 
gotta  do  is  slice  off  some  more  hawg.  Bacon,  can  to- 
matters,  coffee  an'  real  shore- 'nough  sugar.  Sounds  good, 
huh?" 

"Shore  does,  but "  Johnny  looked  pointed  at  the 

half-owner. 

"Oh,  that's  all  right,"  grinned  Skinny  Devinney.  "He 
was  just  studyin'  about  askin'  yuh.  He's  slow,  Spill  is. 
Takes  him  a  while  to  cinch  the  hull  on  his  mind.  He  don't 
mean  nothin'  by  it,  so  don't  yuh  mind  him  none.  He's  a 
real  two-legged  man  behind  his  face." 

"Oh,  I  got  a  heart  o'  gold  all  right,"  said  Spill  Harper, 
with  a  snarl  of  a  laugh.  "Me'n  that  idjit  there  been 
a-fightin'  all.mornin/  an'  I  ain't  got  over  it  yet.  He  says 
the  best  hosses  come  from  Texas,  an'  any  fool  knows  Ari- 


160  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

zona  has  the  call.  Light,  gents,  throw  yore  hosses  in  the 
corral  an'  be  miserable  with  the  rest  of  us." 

They  "lighted"  and  ate  with  Skinny  and  Spill.  After 
dinner  all  four  sat  on  the  bench  outside  the  door  and 
smoked  and  discussed  the  bleak  news  of  the  cow  country. 
Among  other  incidents  Johnny  mentioned  the  robbing  of 
the  express  office  at  Cutter.  At  the  news  the  amazement 
of  Mr.  Harper  and  Mr.  Devinney  was  profound  and  colour 
ful  with  oaths. 

"They're  shore  bluebirds,"  nodded  Johnny. 

"Yuh'd  think  they'd  take  a  rest  once  in  a  while,"  said 
Skinny. 

"They'll  get  dumped  soon,"  declared  Spill  Harper. 
"They  may  be  hellamile,  but  they  can't  keep  it  up. 
Tain't  natural." 

The  logical  Mr.  Harper  nodded  his  head  sagely  and 
looked  about  him  for  indorsement.  Mr.  Ramsay  also 
looked  about  him.  In  an  unobtrusive  way  he  had  been 
doing  little  else  since  his  arrival.  His  lazy  gray  eyes  rested 
for  an  instant  on  a  cottonwood  sapling  two  hundred 
yards  distant,  passed  on  to  a  few  bullet-riddled  tin  cans 
in  the  foreground,  then  came  back  to  the  sapling. 
The  trunk  of  the  cottonwood  was  chipped  and  scarred 
and  feathery  with  freshly  splintered  wood.  Beyond  it 
another  sapling  had  been  broken  off  some  four  feet  from 
the  ground.  Stub  and  top  were  held  together  by  a 
single  strip  of  bark.  Johnny's  eyes  as  he  looked  became 
lazier. 

"Been  shootin'  some,"  he  drawled,  nodding  toward 
the  two  saplings. 

"Nothin'  much  else  to  do  when  we  ain't  ridin',"  ex 
plained  Skinny. 

"Well,  I  don't  claim  to  be  great  shakes  with  a  rifle," 


TARGET  PRACTISE  161 

pursued  Johnny,  "but  I  got  a  good  mind  to  try  maybe  a 
few  shots." 

"Help  yoreself,"  invited  Spill,  his  close-set  little  eyes 
beginning  to  gleam.  "Maybe  now  me'n  Skinny  an'  yore 
friend'll  shoot  with  yuh." 

"Not  me,"  said  Laguerre.  "I  weel  not  waste  de  car 
tridge." 

Spill  Harper  and  Skinny  Devinney  switched  contemptu 
ous  eyes  to  the  half-breed.  They  seemed  to  be  on  the  point 
of  saying  something.  But  they  switched  their  eyes  away 
without  saying  it.  And  somehow  the  contempt  in  their 
eyes  had  disappeared.  Laguerre  smiled  inwardly  and 
rolled  another  cigarette. 

Johnny,  who  had  gone  to  the  corral  for  the  rifle  on  his 
saddle,  came  back  with  the  long  arm  and  sat  down  on  the 
bench. 

"See  that  cottonwood  child  there,"  he  observed  care 
lessly,  "the  one  yuh've  shot  in  two  an*  busted  off.  They's 
just  a  li'l  strip  o'  bark  a-holdin'  it  to  the  stub.  Looks  to  be 
about  as  wide  as  yore  thumb.  I'm  aimin'  to  cut  her  in 
two  an'  drop  the  trunk." 

"Three  shots?"  asked  Skinny  Devinney. 

"One,"  Johnny  said  gently. 

"Bet  yuh  ten  even  yuh  can't  do  it!"  exclaimed  Spill. 

"Go  yuh."  Johnny  took  him  up,  and  turned  sleepy 
eyes  on  Skinny.  "Anybody  else  want  any  of  this?  I  got 
twenty  more  says  I  can  cut  that  bark  in  two." 

"Make  it  fifty,"  suggested  Skinny,  imbued  with  the 
gambler's  spirit,  and  keen  to  make  an  honest  dollar. 

"I'm  yore  ladybug,"  Johnny  told  him. 

"How  about  raisin'  my  ante?"  Spill  asked  eagerly. 
"S'pose  we  make  it  same  as  Skinny's,  huh?" 

"So's  they  won't  be  any  hard  feelin's  s'pose  we  do. 


i62  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

Gents,  I  will  now  give  yuh  an  imitation  of  a  young  man 
puttin'  one  hundred  wheels,  five  twenty-dollar  gold  babies 
of  Uncle  Sammy's  money  in  the  hands  of  a  stakeholder, 
said  office  bein'  ably  filled  by  Mister  Laguerre." 

"I  hope  the  money  ain't  imitation,"  smiled  Skinny,  as 
he  made  his  ante,  "  'cause  I've  got  mine  spent  already." 

"Yuh'll  owe  that  bartender  a  whole  lot  in  less  than  five 
minutes,"  Johnny  assured  him.  "Watch  my  smoke." 

"We  will,"  sneered  Spill  Harper.  "Here's  mine,  Mister 
Laguerre.  Not  that  she's  really  necessary,  'cause  yuh'll 
be  handin'  her  back  with  somethin'  added  on  before  a 
great  while." 

"Yeah,"  laughed  Johnny.  "In  some  ways  you  an' 
Mister  Devinney  think  a  lot  alike.  You  just  watch  my 
smoke.  Watch  the  professor  take  the  rabbits  out  o' 
grandpa's  hat.  Look  closely,  Ferdinand,  or  yuh'll  miss 
somethin'.  See  the  professor  has  ab-so-lutely  nothin' 
up  his  sleeve  but  his  arm.  Watch  now,  you  folks  in 
the  front  row,  an'  yuh'll  learn  all  about  how  to  make 
one  hundred  dollars  in  three  movements  an'  a  hatful  o' 
smoke." 

Johnny  tossed  up  his  Winchester.  There  was  a  flash 
and  a  bang  and  a  cloud  of  gray  smoke.  The  strip  of  bark 
parted.  The  heel  of  the  sapling's  severed  top  scraped 
down  the  side  of  the  stub. 

Johnny  ejected  the  empty  shell,  clicked  in  a  fresh  cart 
ridge,  lowered  the  hammer  to  safety  and  looked  inquiringly 
at  Skinny  and  Spill. 

"That  wasn't  a  shot,"  said  Skinny  with  an  uncertain 
laugh;  "that  was  a  miracle." 

"Was  it?"  grinned  Johnny. 

"Yuh  couldn't  do  it  again!"  Spill  declared  emphatically. 

"No?     Well,   we'll   see   about   that   later.     Just   now, 


TARGET  PRACTISE  163 

there's  a  li'l  business  to  talk  over.  You  gents  are  satisfied 
I  done  what  I  said  I  would?" 

"Oh,  take  the  money!"  snapped  the  sulky  Harper. 

"Yo're  welcome  to  mine,  an'  that's  whatever,"  Skinny 
put  in  tardily.  "  Miracle  or  no  miracle,  that  was  shorely 
one  in  the  black." 

"It  don't  hardly  seem  right  to  take  this  without  givin' 
you  gents  a  chance  to  come  again,"  Johnny  averred, 
pocketing  the  clinking  handful  of  gold.  "S'pose  now  you 
fellers  try  a  shot  or  two." 

"I  can't  shoot  with  you,"  Skinny  said,  strangely  modest, 
"but  Spill  here's  most  as  good  as  his  brother,  an'  Bale  he's 
a  medicine  man  with  a  rifle." 

"Aw,  I  ain't  nothin'  like  Bale,"  grunted  Spill,  "but  I'll 
get  my  rifle  if  you  want.  Get  yores,  Skinny.  Maybe 
Mister  Laguerre  would  like  to  make  it  four-handed." 

"Meestair  Laguerre  ees  plenty  satisfy  for  watch  de 
sharpshootair."  Thus  Laguerre.  "But,"  he  added  with  a 
sinister  smile,  "jus'  for  show  you,  I  weel  was'e  de  car 
tridge." 

The  half-breed  pulled  his  gun  without  haste  and  rolled 
the  cylinder.  It  was  his  habit,  as  it  is  the  habit  of  any 
thoughtful  man,  to  carry  the  hammer  on  an  empty  cham 
ber.  He  drew  a  cartridge  from  his  belt  and  filled  that 
empty  chamber.  He  cocked  the  six-shooter  and  shifted 
sidewise  on  the  bench. 

"See  dat  stone,"  he  remarked  softly,  nodding  toward 
a  large  white  pebble  twenty  yards  distant. 

The  gun,  apparently  held  with  great  carelessness  in  the 
half-breed's  lap,  cracked  sharply.  The  white  pebble 
jerked  upward  and  danced  along  the  ground.  Crack ! 
Again  that  spasmodic  leap  and  skipping  roll.  Four  times 
more  the  half-breed  fired,  and  every  time  the  white  pebble 


164  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

jumped  and  hopped  under  the  sting  of  those  accurate 
bullets. 

Laguerre  calmly  turned  out  his  cylinder,  prodded  forth 
the  empties,  and  reloaded. 

"I  learn  dat  treeck  w'en  I  was  seeck  un  have  plenty 
tarn,"  he  explained.  "You  do  eet,  mabbeso?" 

The  smile  with  which  he  accompanied  these  words  was 
not  sinister.  It  was  chilling. 

"I  guess  likely,"  said  Skinny,  his  eyes  wide  with  wonder 
at  what  he  had  just  seen.  "I  guess  I  will — not.  What 
yuh  tryin'  to  do,  make  us  jealous?  By  Gawd,  if  I  ever 
get  mad  at  you  I  ain't  a-goin'  to  tell  you  about  it  while 
you  an*  me  are  inhabitin'  the  same  county.  I  guess  maybe 
now  I'd  better  write  you  a  letter  an'  play  safe  complete. 
Spill,  I'm  tellin'  yuh,  I  used  to  think  I  knowed  somethin' 
about  guns  an'  rifles  an'  such,  but  I'm  free  to  admit  that 
the  last  five  minutes  has  been  a  liberal  education  with 
trimmin's.  C'mon,  Spill,  an'  le's  take  our  licker  like  li'l 
men.  We'll  die  game  anyhow." 

Johnny  knew  that  Spill's  rifle  was  a  forty-five  ninety. 
During  the  meal  he  had  noticed  two  other  rifles  leaning 
together  in  a  corner  of  the  room.  One  was  the  same  size 
as  Spill's,  but  the  other  was  smaller.  It  was  either  a 
thirty-eight  or  forty  sixty-five.  Johnny  yearned  to  lay 
hands  upon  it,  but  one  may  not  shatter  etiquette  and 
arouse  suspicion  so  far  as  to  paw  another  man's  weapon. 
One  must  resort  to  strategy  and  duplicity. 

When  Skinny  appeared  with  his  rifle  it  was,  as  Johnny 
had  expected — bread  always  falls  on  the  buttered  side — 
the  other  forty-five  ninety.  So  he  shot  a  dozen  rounds 
with  the  two  men  while  Laguerre  watched  sleepily.  But 
the  astute  Johnny  did  not  out-shoot  his  rivals  by  more 
than  a  narrow  margin.  It  would  not  do  to  beat  them  too 


TARGET  PRACTISE  165 

handily.  He  knew  that  they  believed  his  first  shot  to  be 
more  or  less  of  an  accident,  and  he  was  content  that  they 
should  so  believe.  He  endeavoured  to  place  another  bet 
with  them,  but  their  belief  was  not  quite  strong  enough 
for  that  and  they  refused. 

"Tell  yuh  what,"  Johnny  said  suddenly,  "let's  try  an 
other  way.  We've  done  our  li'l  shootin'  at  that  sardine 
can,  an*  Harper  an'  me  are  about  tied." 

"Yes,  you  are!"  cried  Skinny  Devinney.  "I've  got  to 
admit  I  can't  shoot  for  shucks  alongside  you  two,  but 
you've  outshot  Spill  forty  ways,  Ramsay." 

"I  ain't  so  shore,"  denied  Spill  uglily. 

"  Listen  here  to  my  idea,"  Johnny  said  smoothly.  "  I've 
been  usin'  my  own  rifle  right  along.  Bein'  used  to  it 
helps  a  lot." 

"Why  shouldn't  yuh  use  yore  own  rifle?"  queried  the 
puzzled  Skinny. 

"No  reason  a-tall.  But  I  seen  a  thirty-eight  inside. 
Lemme  use  that,  an'  gimme  three  sightin'  shots — it's  only 
fair  I'd  oughta  know  if  she  throws  off — an'  I'll  go  yuh  a 
hundred  or  two  hundred  if  yuh  like  over  six  hundred  yards 
at  any  ol'  target." 

Spill  looked  at  Skinny  and  winked.  As  every  one  knows, 
a  weapon  with  which  one  is  unfamiliar  does  not  make  for 
accuracy. 

"I'll  go  yuh,"  said  Skinny  briefly,  and  hurried  into  the 
house. 

He  returned  with  the  smallest  of  the  three  rifles  and 
handed  it  to  Johnny. 

"She  ain't  a  thirty-eight  like  you  said,"  he  told  Johnny. 
"She's  a  forty  sixty-five." 

"Oh  yeah,  a  forty  sixty-five." 

Johnny  took  the  gun  into  his  hand  and  weighed  it  spec- 


1 66  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

ulatively.  He  slewed  it  round  and  worked  the  lever  with 
his  usual  uncanny  speed.  A  stream  of  yellow  dragonflies, 
the  cartridges  rocketed  over  his  shoulder. 

"Want  to  see  how  she  works,"  he  explained  to  the 
watching  three,  and  stooped  to  retrieve  the  scattered 
cartridges. 

He  was  a  little  slow  in  rilling  the  magazine.  There 
seemed  to  be  a  certain  difficulty  in  pushing  the  shells 
through  the  loading-gate. 

"Got  any  more  shells?"  he  asked,  looking  at  Skinny. 
"They's  only  seven  here." 

"Seven's  more'n  enough,"  protested  Spill,  but  the 
obliging  Skinny  reentered  the  house  and  came  out  with  a 
fat  handful  of  cartridges  and  tossed  the  lot  across  to 
Johnny,  who  had  removed  himself  several  yards  from  the 
doorsill. 

"There's  eight  more,"  observed  Skinny,  "  'At's  all  we 
got." 

"Oh,  I  guess  I  ain't  goin'  to  need  'em  all,"  Johnny  said 
and  proceeded  to  make  it  a  full  magazine. 

He  had  six  cartridges  left  over,  and  slipped  one  into  the 
barrel.  The  remaining  five  he  dropped  into  a  pocket  of  his 
chaps. 

"All  right,"  remarked  Johnny,  sliding  his  hand  into  his 
pocket  and  briskly  clinking  the  five  cartridges.  "All 
right,  what  are  we  a-goin'  to  shoot  at?" 

"Y'ain't  taken  yore  sightin'  shots  yet,"  Spill  grunted 
sourly. 

"I'll  shore  take  'em  if  yuh  say  so/'  smiled  Johnny. 

At  varying  ranges  he  fired  three  shots  at  as  many  cotton- 
woods.  He  levered  in  a  fresh  cartridge,  put  the  hammer 
on  safety  and  executed  a  pas  seul.  His  sliding  toe  struck 
one  of  the  spent  shells  and  kicked  it  under  the  bench. 


TARGET  PRACTISE  167 

Just  then  Biscuit,  who  had  absented  himself  on  some  busi 
ness  of  his  own,  sidled  round  the  corner  of  the  house. 

"Hiyah  feller!"  called  Johnny,  stooping  and  picking 
up  another  of  the  empties  at  his  feet.  "  Bone,  feller,  bone ! " 

He  flipped  the  spent  shell  whirling  toward  the  yellow 
dog.  But  his  aim  was  poor  and  the  brass  cylinder  struck 
six  feet  ahead  of  the  dog  and  rolled  under  the  bulge  of  the 
foundation  log  of  the  ranch-house.  Biscuit  sniffed  at  the 
cartridge  case,  sneezed,  then  sat  down  on  lean  haunches 
and  meditatively  scratched  himself. 

It  is  not  necessary  to  relate  in  detail  how  Johnny  in 
three  shots  at  six  hundred  yards  amazed  beyond  measure 
Skinny  and  Spill  and  won  another  hundred  dollars.  Let  it 
suffice  that  he  did  this,  and  with  an  air  positively  apologetic 
in  its  mildness  returned  the  forty  sixty-five  Winchester  to 
Skinny. 

"The  magazine's  full,"  said  Johnny.  "I  put  in  three 
of  the  five  shells  I  had  in  my  pocket.  Here's  the  other 
two." 


CHAPTER  XVI 
THE  AGENCY 

TEEPEE  MOUNTAIN  on  Hatchet  Creek  is  almost 
the  twin  of  Big  Teepee  on  the  Yellow  Medicine  in 
everything  but  name.  It  stands  among  lesser  hills 
thirty  miles  north  of  Paradise  Bend.  Twenty  miles  be 
yond  the  Teepee,  at  the  junction  of  the  Hatchet  and  Little 
Knife  creeks,  sprawls  Johnson's  Peak.  High,  wide  and 
bare,  unlovely  as  rockslides  and  deep  gulches  can  make  it, 
the  base  of  the  great  peak  covers  more  ground  than  several 
townships.  The  northern  slopes  marked  the  southern 
boundary  of  the  Fort  Yardley  Indian  Reservation. 

The  post  itself  lay  along  the  banks  of  the  Little  Knife, 
and  the  Indian  agent  lived  trustfully  at  the  agency  in  the 
middle  of  the  reservation.  And  the  reservation  was — 
it  has  been  plowed  and  harrowed  by  the  settler  these  six 
teen  years — fifty  miles  across  at  the  narrowest  part.  But 
Indian  agents  in  those  days  were  not  supposed  to  have 
nerves. 

In  order  to  locate  a  certain  Indian,  it  was  necessary,  for 
the  redskin  is  a  restless  soul,  to  call  upon  the  agent.  Some 
times  he  knew  where  to  find  the  desired  Indian,  more  often 
he  did  not,  but  he  could  at  least  pass  one  on  to  the  Indian 
police  who  always  knew. 

So  it  was  that  Johnny  and  Laguerre,  their  ponies  adrip 
from  the  ford  of  the  Little  Knife,  rode  into  the  post  of 
Fort  Yardley  at  guard-mount.  The  guard  was  at  parade 

168 


THE  AGENCY  169 

rest  as  the  two  punchers  trotted  up  the  trail.  Which  trail 
crossed  the  end  of  the  parade.  The  adjutant  gave  the 
command — : 

"Sound  off!" 

The  field  music,  six  fifers  and  four  drummers,  imme 
diately  swung  out  to  pass  in  front  of  the  officers  of  the 
guard  to  the  left  of  the  line.  As  they  swung  the  fifes  and 
drums  shrilled  and  crashed  into  "Yankee  Doodle." 

At  the  horrific  and  unexpected  racket  both  cow-ponies 
went  out  of  their  heads.  They  sprang  into  the  air,  came 
down  stifF-legged,  and  then  proceeded,  in  long  bucking 
leaps  to  travel  across  the  parade  ground.  Johnny's  horse 
in  its  frantic  terror  charged  down  upon  a  major,  two  cap 
tains,  and  half-a-dozen  lieutenants  who  were  peaceably 
watching  guard-mount  from  the  boardwalk  in  front  of  the 
C.  O.'s.  They  stood  their  ground  like  officers  and  gentle 
men  till  it  was  evident  that  the  horse  had  no  intention  of 
stopping.  Whereupon  they  retreated  rapidly  in  several 
directions. 

Johnny,  hot  and  angry,  swearing  for  that  he  had  lost  his 
hat,  adopted  extreme  measures  just  as  his  mount's  fore- 
hoofs  pounded  on  the  boardwalk.  He  gave  two  terrific 
right  and  left  yanks  at  the  horse's  mouth  to  the  inevitable 
end  that  the  animal  crossed  its  forelegs  and  stood  on  its 
neck.  Johnny  did  not  stop  going.  He  landed  on  his  face 
in  Mrs.  C.  O/s  pet  flower  bed.  He  bounced  to  his  feet, 
all  fresh  dirt  and  crushed  pansies,  and  caught  his  horse 
by  the  bit  in  time  to  prevent  that  nimble  quadruped,  which 
had  regained  its  feet  with  remarkable  celerity,  from  tres 
passing  upon  the  sacred  precincts  of  the  C.  O.'s  porch. 

"Hell's  bells!"  panted  Johnny  swinging  at  the  head  of 
his  capering  horse.  "  Whatsa  matter  with  yuh,  yuh  goggle 
eyed  accordeen?  This  ain't  no  dance!" 


i7o  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

But,  as  the  fifes  and  drums  continued  to  rattle  and 
squeak  on  their  way  back  to  the  right  of  the  line,  the  horse 
appeared  to  think  it  was  a  dance,  and  there  was  bedlam 
and  hullabaloo  on  that  boardwalk. 

Finally  the  field  music  ceased  playing,  to  the  disgust  of 
every  one  save  the  sweating  Johnny.  When  the  music 
stopped  the  horse  did  too.  Johnny,  muttering  many 
words,  raised  scowling  eyes  to  the  row  of  grinning  faces  on 
the  C.  O.'s  porch.  His  glance,  caught  by  a  movement  in 
their  rear,  swept  past  them  to  the  front  door.  There 
stood  the  tall  and  dignified  C.  O.  The  officer  stared  balefully 
at  Johnny.  But  the  puncher  remained  unimpressed.  He 
was  not  a  soldier,  so  he  winked  pleasantly  at  the  C.  O. 
and  gazed  with  much  interest  at  the  face  of  the  man  look 
ing  over  the  C.  O.'s  shoulder. 

The  man  was  the  red-head,  and  he  had,  as  Johnny  met 
his  eyes,  made  a  sudden  movement  as  if  to  dodge  out  of 
sight.  The  puncher  wondered  why.  He  also  wondered 
why  the  red-head  should  call  upon  the  commanding  officer 
at  Fort  Yardley.  What  could  a  colonel  of  regulars  have 
in  common  with  such  a  man?  And  then  Johnny  remem 
bered  that  for  all  he  himself  knew  to  the  contrary  the 
yellow-eyed  red-head  was  as  pure  as  any  number  of  square 
miles  of  freshly  fallen  snow.  Johnny  nodded  to  the  red 
head,  hopped  into  the  saddle  and  rode  back  across  the 
parade  for  his  hat. 

He  joined  Laguerre,  who  had  contrived  to  stop  his  horse 
by  the  simple  expedient  of  steering  the  animal  into  the 
log  wall  of  the  quartermaster's  storehouse,  and  they  rode 
away  together. 

"That  red-headed  jigger's  here,"  Johnny  told  the  half- 
breed.  "  I  seen  him  at  the  colonel's  house.  Inside  he  was, 
standin'  right  behind  the  colonel  all  comfortable  an  serene. 


THE  AGENCY  171 

I  flapped  my  ears  at  him  an*  he  flapped  back,  but  I  don't 
guess  he  was  awful  glad  to  see  me.  He  looked  like  he 
wanted  to  dodge,  but  wasn't  quick  enough." 

"Funny  ting  she  ees  here,  dat  red-head,"  puzzled  La- 
guerre. 

"She's  worse'n  that.  We  needn't  bother  about  goin' 
to  see  the  agent  now.  If  he's  what  we  think  he  is  he'll 
shore  trail  us  an'  find  out  our  business.  Oh,  yeah,  lookin' 
for  what  became  o'  Black  Bear's  dun  mare.  Then  good-by 
Mister  Red-head,  an'  what  he  knows  will  go  to  the  right 
place  an'  you  an'  me  will  be  all  tangled  up  in  our  rope. 
Are  you  me?" 

"I  am  you  all  right.  But  we  mus'  do  somet'ing.  We 
mus'  go  to  de  agen'  un  tell  heem  de  long  lie.  We  mus' 
have  de  raison  for  come  here  to  de  reservation.  Den  de 
red-head  weel  be  satisfy  we  are  not  trailin'  de  hold-up. 
She  ees  smart,  dat  tnsieu" 

"So  are  we  smart.  An' you  leave  the  lyin*  to  me.  I'll 
think  up  a  real  fancy  one.  An'  another  thing,  we'd  oughta 
hang  round  an'  find  out  when  the  red-head  goes  to  the 
agency  an'  what  happens  an'  all  like  that.  But,  s'pose  he 
don't  go?" 

"She  weel  go,  by  gar,"  was  the  confident  assurance  of 
Laguerre.  "Eet  weel  be  de  job  for  fin'  Black  Bear  now. 
We  cannot  ask  even  de  police.  Dey  might  tell.  Sacre 
nom  de  Dieuf  de  luck!" 

"Don't  yuh  know  any  of  these  Injuns  here,  Telescope?" 

"De  only  Enjun  w'at  belong  here  I  know  ees  Willie's  01* 
Brudder-een-Law,  un  she  ees  ofFde  reservation  down  on  de 
Lazy." 

"Lot  o'  good  that'll  do  us.  We  just  gotta  do  the  best 
we  can  then,  an'  keep  Mister  High  Pockets  Red-Head 
breathin'  easy  about  us.  Yessir,  Telescope,  he  mustn't 


172  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

get  to  takin'  us  serious,  not  for  a  minute.  I'm  tellin'  yuh 
all  he  needs  is  one  li'l  suspicion  for  him  to  paint  for  war 
prompt  an*  right  away,  an*  a  battle  with  that  gent  means 
him  lyin'  all  so  free  an'  comfortable  behind  an  outcrop  or  a 
tree  an'  you  an'  me  wanderin'  into  sight  round  a  bend  in 
the  trail  all  ready  to  be  plugged.  An'  I'm  free  to  admit 
this  here  trip  of  ours  to  Fort  Yardley  is  a  heap  likely  to 
strain  his  good  nature  a  few  an'  set  his  imagination  to  turn- 
in'  flip-flops.  An'  yuh  gotta  admit  the  reservation  is  a  mile 
or  two  out  o'  the  way  for  Flyin'  M  stray  men." 

"I  see  dat  all  right,  un  s'posin'  we  mak  de  leetle  trap 
for  dat  man,  Johnny?" 

"Not  a-tall,"  Johnny  said  hastily,  instantly  divining  the 
fell  purpose  at  the  bottom  of  Laguerre's  "leetle  trap." 
"Yuh  see,  Telescope,  this  has  all  gotta  be  a  heap  legal. 
An'  she  wouldn't  be  right  to  go  to  quarrelin'  with  the  red 
head  yet.  We  gotta  wait." 

"S'pose  now  she  don'  wait?  S'pose  now  she  go  to  for 
bushw'ack  us  ? "  Laguerre  turned  ominous  eyes  on  Johnny. 

"Well?" 

"I  tink  eet  be  good  t'ing  for  bushw'ack  heem  firs',  mab- 
beso." 

"Is  that  yore  li'l  plan?"  Johnny  exclaimed,  precisely 
as  if  he  had  not  from  the  first  correctly  fathomed  the  half- 
breed's  thoughts.  "Why,  Telescope,  I'm  shore  surprised 
at  yuh.  Yuh  shore  won't  get  no  white  card  at  Sunday- 
school  next  week." 

"Aw !"  grunted  Telescope.  "You  ees  jus'  lak 

Tom  Loudon  we'n  heem  un  me  was  trail  dat  Blakeley 
gang.  By  gar,  Beel  Archer  un  a  frien'  hees  was  foller 

Tom  un  me  out  o'  Marysville,  un  Tom  was  raise w'en 

I  wan'  for  bushw'ack  dem.  Well,  we  do  not  bushw'ack 
dem,  un  dey  mak  us  plenty  trouble  aftair.  More  better 


THE  AGENCY  173 

we  bushw'ack  dem  at  firs' — ah,  we  weel  not  talk  about 
eet.  We  weel  let  de  red-head  go — dees  tarn.  But  she 
have  keel'  Mat  Neville,  un  nobody  was  cry  eef  de  red 
head  she  was  keel." 

"We  gotta  be  legal  about  it,  I  tell  yuh." 

"You  be  too legal  un  you  die  queeck,  bien  sur." 

"This  hold-up  huntin'  shore  ain't  a  safe  business,  is  it, 
Telescope?"  grinned  Johnny  Ramsay. 

To  which  frivolity  Laguerre  made  reply  by  repeating 
that  the  red-head's  calling  upon  the  Fort  Yardley  C.  O.  was 
an  odd  chance.  Johnny  made  no  comment,  and  conver 
sation  languished  while  the  ponies'  steady  walk-along  ate 
the  long  miles  down. 

When  now  and  then  they  topped  the  long  and  sunbaked 
ridges  they  looked  back  over  the  way  they  had  come. 
But  they  saw  no  moving  speck  on  the  back  trail  betoken 
ing  a  following  rider.  They  did  not  turn  aside  to  lie  in 
wait  and  spy  patiently.  For  the  man  might  well  be  a 
trailer.  In  which  case  it  was  necessary  that  their  pony 
tracks  lead  without  deviation  to  the  agency. 

Johnny  and  Laguerre  reached  the  agency  in  the  early 
afternoon.  They  had  met  no  Indians  on  their  journey 
and  none  was  in  sight  among  the  gray-brown  buildings. 
The  agent,  an  old-young  man  with  bored  eyes,  was  sitting 
on  his  porch  gloomily  reading  a  month-old  newspaper. 
At  their  coming  he  folded  the  paper  carefully  and  stuck  it 
in  his  hip  pocket,  for  a  paper  is  a  precious  thing  and  may, 
when  the  printing  has  been  read,  be  used  for  cigarettes. 

Some  Indian  agents  are  oppressed  with  the  importance 
of  their  stations,  but  this  agent  was  a  human  being  and 
lonely.  He  welcomed  the  two  riders  to  the  shade  of  his 
porch  and  the  comfort  of  his  barrel-chairs  and  proffered 
refreshment. 


174  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

"Water  pail's  right  inside  the  door,"  said  the  agent. 
"Watering  trough's  'round  the  corner  of  the  house." 

So,  being  horsemen,  they  first  attended  to  their  thirsty 
mounts,  then  came  back  and  drank  three  dipperfuls  apiece 
and  joined  the  agent  on  the  porch. 

"Well,"  said  the  agent,  when  the  length  and  dust  of  the 
trail  had  been  commented  upon,  "well,  what's  the  trou 
ble?" 

"Trouble?"  Johnny  raised  his  eyebrows. 

"Of  course,  trouble."  The  bored  eyes  lifted  wearily. 
"What  have  my  Indians  been  doing?" 

Johnny  had  devised  a  most  excellent  lie  for  the  good  of 
the  agent,  but  the  latter's  remark  threw  that  lie  into  the 
discard  and  substituted  another,  equally  excellent. 

"I  dunno,"  said  Johnny,  "but  we've  got  a  sneakin' 
notion  they've  maybe  been  runnin'  off  our  bosses." 

"I  know,"  nodded  the  agent  sympathetically.  "They 
will  do  it.  They're  like  children." 

"Yeah,  but  spankin'  won't  do  'em  no  good.  We  think 
them  bosses  are  on  this  reservation  now." 

"What  brand?" 

"Flyin'  M.     Here's  a  letter  tellin'  what  we  are." 

"Why,  that's  Scotty  Mackenzie's  outfit,  down  on  the 
Dogsoldier,"  said  the  agent,  his  eyes  skimming  the  lines  of 
writing. 

"Shore,  an*  she's  from  Scotty  Mackenzie's  ranch  the 
hosses  have  been  took." 

"How  many?" 

"We've  missed  eight,"  lied  Johnny. 

"Willie's  Old  Brother-in-Law  and  his  family  are  the 
only  ones  out  on  pass."  The  agent  was  thinking  aloud. 

"  'Tain't  him — not  by  no  manner  of  means."  Johnny 
was  thoroughly  determined  to  absolve  once  for  all  that 


THE  AGENCY  175 

much-respected  redskin,  Willie's  Old  Brother-Jn-Law. 
"For  one  thing  that  Injun  is  down  on  the  Lazy,  an'  for 
another  he's  a  personal  friend  of  yore's  truly,  an'  for  another 
he  wouldn't  rustle  no  hosses  nohow.  No  sir,  they's  been 
Injuns  seen  near  the  ranch,  an'  right  after  they  was  seen 
the  hosses  was  missed.  Of  course,  I  don't  say  yore  Injuns 
done  it,  but  they's  a  chance." 

"You  may  be  right,"  sighed  the  agent,  "But  my  In 
dians,  most  of  them,  range  north  and  wrest  as  a  rule. 
However,  the  only  thing  to  do  is  to  look  around." 

"My  idea  exactly.  We  thought  we'd  come  to  you  first 
— maybe  yuh  could  help  us." 

"I  can't,  except  to  send  a  policeman  with  you.  And 
let  me  impress  upon  you  if  you  find  these  horses  there 
must  be  no  violence.  Horses  and  suspects  must  be  brought 
by  the  policeman  before  me  and  I  will  judge  the  case." 

"Fine,"  said  Johnny.  "We  won't  do  nothin'  illegal. 
We  aim  to  please.  But  we  shore  want  them  horses." 

"Of  course.     I'll  send  for  a  policeman  at  once." 

This  was  rushing  matters  much  too  speedily  to  suit 
Johnny.  He  had  been  talking  for  time,  lots  of  time,  the 
more  time  the  better.  And  now  the  agent  spoke  of  a 
policeman.  But  Johnny  was  not  at  a  loss.  He  made  a 
grimace  and  rubbed  his  stomach. 

"Guess  I  musta  drank  too  much  o'  that  water,"  he 
muttered. 

"What's  that?"  asked  the  agent. 

"  Bellyache,"  was  the  jejune  reply. 

"Dat  watair  she  was  too  col'  mabbeso,"  suggested  La- 
guerre,  who  had  caught  the  significance  of  a  dropped  eye 
lid. 

"And  you  probably  didn't  stop  to  make  coffee  at  noon, 
if  you  stopped  at  all,"  said  the  agent. 


176  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

"We  didn't,"  groaned  Johnny,  entering  into  the  spirit 
of  the  moment. 

"I  thought  so.  Stomach's  had  nothing  to  do  all  day, 
and  you  pour  a  quart  of  cold  water  in  it.  You  sit  here. 
I'll  fix  you  up." 

The  agent  went  indoors,  and  Johnny  gave  himself  up 
to  his  acting  and  to  pleasant  thoughts  of  a  small  and  in 
vigorating  drink  of  whisky.  The  private  stock  of  the 
Indian  agent  was  reputed  to  be  aged,  mellow,  and  potent 
to  a  degree.  The  agent  returned  with  a  thick  and 
brimming  tumbler.  A  pleasant  glow  of  anticipation 
warmed  Johnny's  whole  being.  He  almost  smiled,  but 
remembered  himself  in  time  to  make  a  face  and  hug  his 
stomach. 

"Drink  this,"  said  the  agent  kindly. 

Johnny  held  out  a  trembling  hand,  took  the  glass,  and 
gulped  down  a  large  and  healthy  swallow.  Then,  well  nigh 
strangling,  tears  starting  from  his  eyes,  he  sprang  to  his 
feet  with  a  cough  and  a  splutter,  and  clung  to  one  of  the 
porch  uprights.  His  outraged  throat  burned.  The  roof 
of  his  mouth  and  his  tongue  seemed  on  fire. 

"You  only  took  a  little  bit,"  said  the  agent  reprovingly, 
as  he  stopped  to  pick  up  the  fallen  glass.  "I  don't  believe 
it  was  enough  to  help  your  colic." 

"Wha — what  is  that  stuff"?"  gasped  Johnny. 

"Jamaica  ginger,"  the  agent  told  him.  "You  seemed 
in  such  pain  that  I  made  it  a  little  stronger  than  usual." 

"She's  great  stuff,"  Johnny  said  without  enthusiasm. 
"Bet  my  tongue's  raw." 

He  hung  the  organ  in  question  out  of  his  mouth  and 
waggled  it  in  the  open  air.  Laguerre  choked  in  an  odd 
way  and  slid  hurriedly  round  the  corner  of  the  house. 
Johnny  followed  him  with  angry  eyes.  He  could  see  noth- 


THE  AGENCY  177 

ing  to  laugh  at.  He  was  suffering  the  preliminary  tor 
tures  of  the  damned. 

"I'll  get  you  some  more,"  said  the  agent,  who  had  been 
watching  him  closely.  "I'll  have  that  colic  cured  in  no 
time." 

"Never  mind,"  was  Johnny's  hasty  injunction.  "I  feel 
better  already.  I — I'll  just  sit  down  a  H'l  while,  I  guess. 
That's  all  I  need  now.  I'll  be  right  in  two  shakes." 

But  Johnny  spoke  to  empty  air.  He  heard  indoors  the 
clink  of  bottle  neck  on  tumbler  rim. 

"Wish  I'd  chose  to  fall  off  the  porch  an'  sprain  my  ankle 
instead,"  he  groaned  to  himself.  "That  ginger  stuff 
would  shore  do  a  lot  more  good  rubbed  on  than  swallered. 
Bet  he  made  a  mistake  and  gimme  hoss-liniment  any 
way,"  he  added  morosely. 

The  agent  appeared  and  pressed  on  Johnny  a  fresh 
tumblerful  of  colic's  first  aid.  In  vain  did  Johnny  affirm 
upon  oath  that  the  pain  had  almost  entirely  departed. 
The  agent  was  an  unbelieving  citizen. 

"Drink  it  right  down,"  the  agent  insisted  in  a  tone  that 
was  meant  to  be  soothing.  "Swallow  it  quickly.  The 
first  glass  seemed  to  bother  you  a  little,  so  I  made  this  a 
trifle  weaker.  Come,  come,  man,  what's  the  matter  with 
you?  This  is  the  best  thing  in  the  world  for  what  ails 
you." 

Mentally  anathematizing  the  agent  for  a  liar  Johnny 
drank  the  awful  draft,  clamped  his  jaws,  and  slumped 
down  on  the  small  of  his  back  in  complete  bitterness  of 
soul. 

"You'll  do  finely  now,"  the  agent  assured  him,  "but  if 
you  don't  I'll  mix  you  another  in  jig  time." 

"Not  while  I  have  my  health  you  won't,"  muttered 
Johnny. 


1 78  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

"What's  that?"     The  agent  spoke  from  the  doorway. 

"I  was  just  sayin'  how  the  last  dose  shore  stampeded 
that  bellyache,"  Johnny  cried  hastily.  Li'l  oP  tummy's 
shore  listenin'  to  reason  now,  yuh  bet  yuh." 

Laguerre  silently  drifted  up  and  sat  down  on  the  edge 
of  the  porch.  He  settled  an  upright  comfortably  between 
his  shoulder-blades  and  placidly  fished  out  the  makings. 
Johnny  ached  to  grab  Laguerre  by  his  self-satisfied  ankles 
and  pull  him  off  the  porch.  What  right  had  he  to  sit  there 
and  blandly  enjoy  himself  smoking  cigarettes  while  his — 
Johnny's — little  insides  were  causing  their  possessor  acut- 
est  agony? 

Johnny  wondered  dismally  whether  he  himself  would 
ever  be  able  to  smoke.  It  seemed  doubtful.  The  world 
was  a  dark  place,  full  of  woe  and  tribulation.  A  moving 
speck  on  the  Fort  Yardley  trail  hardly  served  to  rouse 
Johnny's  interest  in  life  and  its  work. 

An  hour  later  the  moving  speck  had  resolved  itself  into 
a  horse  and  rider.  The  animal  was  blue.  The  horseman 
wore  a  high-crowned  white  hat. 

"S'pose  we  might  as  well  be  movin',"  the  unhappy 
Johnny  grunted  to  the  agent. 

"Sure  you're  able?"     With  maddening  solicitude. 

"Shore."     Ungraciously. 

"I'll  get  a  policeman." 

The  agent  stepped  off  the  porch  and  crossed  to  one  of 
the  other  buildings. 

"How  you  feel?"  Laguerre  asked  gravely. 

"Like !" 

Laguerre  looked  across  the  baked  and  shimmering  land 
scape  and  winked  his  off  eye  at  Johnson's  Peak. 

When  the  agent  returned  with  an  Indian  policeman  in 
tow  the  blue  horse  and  its  white-hatted  rider  were  racking 


THE  AGENCY  179 

in  between  the  agency  buildings.  The  horseman  dis 
mounted  in  front  of  the  agency  and  trailed  his  reins.  He 
stuck  one  foot  on  the  edge  of  the  porch  and  let  his  blank 
yellow  stare  travel  from  Laguerre  to  Johnny. 

"  Beats  all  how  I'm  forever  meetin'  you  gents,"  he  re 
marked  smilelessly. 

"Don't  it,"  Johnny  said  gravely. 

" Shore  does,"  nodded  the  red-head.  "Almost  seems 
as  'if  we'd  ought  to  get  acquainted — or  somethin'." 

Came  then  that  odd  and  dog-toothed  smile  that  carried 
no  joy  whatever  and  lifted  the  left  side  of  the  man's  upper 
lip.  Johnny  chuckled  as  a  man  chuckles  at  a  most  excel 
lent  joke. 

"  Does  seem  like  we'd  ought — or  somethin',"  he  drawled. 

The  red-head  watched  them  silently  as  they  mounted 
and  rode  away  with  the  Indian  policeman. 


CHAPTER  XVII 
THE  INEXPLICABLE  RED-HEAD 

THE  two  stray  men  won  the  good  will  of  the  Indian 
policeman  with  tobacco  and  a  very  good  jack-knife. 
He  was  a  Piegan,  this  policeman,  and  it  developed 
that  Laguerre  had  at  one  time  married   a   Piegan  girl. 
Which  fact  made  the  Indian  almost  a  blood  brother. 

Nevertheless  neither  the  half-breed  nor  Johnny  was  in 
the  least  loose  in  his  talk.  They  spoke  casually  and 
with  great  caution  of  many  things  other  than  Black  Bear 
and  his  dun  mare.  But  in  camp  that  evening  the  con 
versation  was  turned  by  Laguerre  on  horses.  Like  most 
Indians,  the  policeman  knew  a  horse  from  tail  to  foretop. 
It  seemed  most  natural  as  the  discussion  progressed  for 
Johnny  to  assert  that  there  were  many  horses  that  could 
not  be  broken  to  stand  to  the  trailing  rein,  and  that  a 
gelding  was  easier  than  a  mare  to  break. 

The  policeman  concurred  warmly.  He  had  a  friend,  he 
said,  one  Black  Bear,  who  had  once  owned  a  dun  mare 
that  would  not  stand  without  being  tied,  pulled  back  on 
the  rope,  was  incredibly  vicious  in  the  biting  and  kicking 
line,  bucked  like  a  pinwheel  twice  a  week  regularly,  but 
that  could  be  ridden  down  to  a  whisper  without  giving 
out. 

"By  Gawd,"  swore  the  policeman,  "dat  mare  she  go 
forever  all  same  fire  hoss  on  de  relroad.  She  mak  you 
tire  'fore  she  tire." 

180 


THE  INEXPLICABLE  RED-HEAD         181 

"Yeah,"  Johnny  said  with  interest.  "Yore  friend  got 
her  now?" 

"Naw,  sol'  her."     Disgustedly. 

''Who  to?" 

"Dat  man  wit*  de  red  head  un  blue  hoss  wat  come  to  de 
agency  'fore  we  go  'way,"  was  the  sufficiently  unexpected 
reply. 

"Him,"  Johnny  almost  stuttered.  Then  to  cover  his 
surprise,  he  added.  "He  ain't  ridin'  her  now." 

"Naw.     Ride  de  blue  pony  now." 

"Guess  he  must  be  in  the  hoss  business." 

"I  dunno." 

"Don't  he  come  here  often,  huh?' 

"Naw,  she  no  come  of'en.  Come  w'en  she  buy  de  mare. 
Come  to-day.  Two  tarn,  mabbeso." 

"Funny  I  can't  remember  his  name.  What  did  he  say 
it  was,  Telescope?"  Johnny  turned  toward  the  half-breed. 

Laguerre  shook  his  head  and  looked  inquiringly  at  the 
policeman. 

"Never  know  hees  name.  She  no  tell  Black  Bear. 
Black  Bear  no  giveadam.  Hees  money  good,  un  dat  ees 
all  Black  Bear  wan'  for  know." 

Since  the  information  they  had  been  seeking  was  now 
theirs,  it  was  unnecessary  to  see  Black  Bear,  but  it  was 
necessary  to  maintain  their  bluff  of  "rustled  horses." 
So  they  spent  the  next  day  riding  hither  and  yon  with  their 
friend  the  Indian  policeman.  They  looked  at  many  horses 
but  they  had  covered  only  a  small  section  of  the  reserva 
tion  when,  in  the  afternoon  of  the  third  day,  they  an 
nounced  their  intention  of  returning  to  the  agency. 

"Guess  our  hosses  ain't  here,  after  all,"  remarked 
Johnny,  with  a  fine  air  of  regret.  "No  use  a-combn'  the 
whole  reservation." 


182  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

"Dey  a  'ole  ban'  o'  pony  over  dem  heel — mabbeso  you 
fin*  you  hoss,"  suggested  the  policeman  hopefully,  for  the 
horse-band  over  the  hill  belonged  to  a  wealthy  enemy  of  his 
and  he — the  policeman — was  humanly  desirous  of  seeing 
the  mighty  brought  low. 

But  the  horse-band  was  allowed  to  graze  in  peace  and 
the  policeman,  mentally  lamenting  the  lack  of  enterprise 
displayed  by  the  two  stray  men,  was  compelled  to  return 
with  them  to  the  agency. 

They  reached  the  huddle  of  low  buildings  in  the  last  of 
the  twilight,  and,  by  the  light  of  the  lantern  hanging  on  a 
nail  beside  the  agent's  door,  they  saw  on  the  floor  of  the 
agent's  porch,  seven  neat  McClellan  saddles  lying  all  along. 

As  they  dismounted,  a  soldier  strolled  round  the  corner 
of  the  house  and  halted  at  sight  of  them.  The  lantern 
light  shone  dully  yellow  on  the  three  faded  stripes  marking 
the  blue  sleeves.  The  "non-com"  faced  about  and  walked 
quickly  in  the  direction  of  the  corrals.  They  could  hear 
him  calling  for  Mack,  Thomas,  and  GofF.  Somewhat  more 
than  vaguely  uneasy,  Johnny  stepped  up  on  the  porch. 
The  agent  came  to  the  open  doorway. 

"Hello,"  said  the  agent  cordially.  "I  was  wondering 

when  you'd  drift  in.  Any  luck  ? Too  bad.  Never  mind. 

Maybe  I'll  run  across  'em.  Come  in,  come  in,  both  of 
you.  Yellow  Bird" — to  the  Indian  policeman — "take  the 
horses  to  the  corrals  and  tell  Boom  Kettle  to  feed  them." 

The  agent  led  the  way  through  the  dark  front  room  to  a 
blanketed  doorway  outlined  by  narrow  lines  of  light.  He 
pulled  aside  the  heavy  blanket,  letting  out  a  golden  glow  of 
radiance,  and  signed  for  them  to  enter. 

They  passed  in,  their  eyes  slitted  against  the  dazzle  of 
the  two  round-wicked  lamps  on  the  table  in  the  middle  of 
the  room. 


THE  INEXPLICABLE  RED-HEAD          183 

Facing  them,  his  elbows  on  the  table,  sat  an  officer. 
His  shoulder-straps  bore  the  gold  oak-leaves  on  yellow  of  a 
cavalry  major,  his  body  was  lean,  and  his  face  was  round, 
moon-round,  and  burned  red  as  a  brick.  The  eyes  he 
raised  at  their  entrance  were  a  hard  black,  and  there  was 
nothing  moony  about  them.  You  often  see  judge- 
advocates  with  just  such  eyes.  The  major  nodded  jerkily, 
and  Johnny  and  Laguerre  nodded  back,  and  wondered 
what  on  earth  he  wanted  and  why  the  agent  was  fidgeting 
in  the  background. 

"Sit  down,"  said  the  major.  "I  want  to  ask  you  a  few 
questions." 

"Help  yoreself,"  smiled  Johnny.     "We  aim  to  please." 

He  hooked  a  chair  forward,  slid  into  it  sidewise,  and 
pushed  his  hat  back.  He  brought  out  the  makings  and 
proceeded  to  build  himself  a  cigarette.  Far  be  it  from  him 
to  be  either  impressed  or  intimidated  by  the  military. 
He  blew  a  ring  and  looked  through  it  at  the  moon-faced 
major.  Laguerre,  slumping  comfortably  down  on  his 
shoulder-blades,  smiled  an  untender  smile.  He  foresaw  a 
jape. 

"You  two  are  from  Paradise  Bend,  aren't  you?"  asked 
the  major. 

"Us?"  Johnny  quirked  a  surprised  eyebrow.  "Oh, 
no,  we  ain't  from  the  Bend." 

"I  was  told  differently."     Thus  the  major  severely. 

"Yo're  apt  to  hear  most  anythin'  in  this  country," 
Johnny's  grin  did  not  quite  take  the  curse  off  the  imperti 
nence. 

"You'd  better  tell  me  what  I  wish  to  know,"  cautioned 
the  major. 

"If  I  only  knowed  what  it  was  yuh  wanted,"  Johnny 
suggested  gently. 


184  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

"Who  and  what  are  you  two  men?"  The  major's  tone 
was  that  of  one  addressing  a  squadron. 

"Wrong,"  declared  Johnny.  "Wrong  twice.  We  ain't 
over  in  the  next  county,  an'  we  ain't  'what,'  not  for  a 
minute." 

Laguerre  began  to  eye  the  major  with  extreme  disfavour. 
The  half-breed  knew  that  there  was  a  soldier  standing  on 
the  porch.  He  had  heard  the  scrape  of  a  carbine  butt  and 
the  jingle  of  spurs. 

The  major,  omitting  the  "what,"  repeated  his  question. 
Johnny  promptly  gave  the  required  information. 

"How  do  I  know  you  are  telling  the  truth?"  the  major 
inquired  with  mistaken  keenness,  and  now  Johnny  per 
ceived  what  he  had  not  at  first,  that  the  hard  black  eyes 
of  the  major  were  set  a  little  too  close  together. 

"How  do  yuh  know  I'm  tellin'  the  truth  ?"  Johnny  cooed 
softly  as  a  sucking  dove.  "  Y' ain't  been  west  o'  the  Mis 
sissippi  long,  or  yuh'd  just  naturally  know  I  was  tellin' 
the  truth.  I  dunno  but  what  the  colonel  would  'a'  done 
better  to  send  along  a  shavetail — if  he's  got  one  with 
brains." 

The  barbed  rebuke  stuck  and  clung.  The  major  was 
not  exactly  a  fool.  But  even  as  Johnny  had  divined,  he 
was  not  long  from  the  East  and  a  New  England  post  where 
an  examining  officer  might  say  pretty  much  what  he  liked. 
Some  day  sense  of  proportion  would  be  his,  but  it  was  de 
cidedly  not  now.  The  brick-red  of  his  countenance  deep 
ened  a  shade.  The  black  eyes  turned  spiteful. 

"Now,  now,  steady,"  Johnny  advised  earnestly.  "You 
ain't  doin'  what  the  colonel  told  you  to  do.  'Find  out 
all  yuh  can  about  'em,'  says  he,  'an'  treat  'em  right/ 
Ain't  that  correct?  Well,  don't  answer  if  it  hurts  yuh. 
Good  old  feller,  the  colonel.  I  seen  him  this  mornin'. 


THE  INEXPLICABLE  RED-HEAD         185 

He's  got  a  nice,  kind  face,  but  I'm  afraid  he  believes  every- 
thin'  that's  told  him." 

Johnny  shook  his  head  and  sighed.  It  was  evident  that 
he  was  grieving  over  the  trusting  nature  of  the  Fort  Yard- 
ley  C.  O.  Laguerre  snickered  openly.  From  the  porch 
came  a  sound  midway  between  a  cough  and  a  snort. 

"I  believe  I'll  put  you  under  arrest,"  said  the  major. 

"No,  you  won't,"  Johnny  informed  him  decidedly. 
"Yore  orders  don't  say  nothin'  like  that." 

"How  do  you  know?" 

"Easy.  You  got  one  buck  out  there  on  the  porch.  I 
heard  him  scufflin'  round.  If  more  o'  yore  boys  had  come 
up  on  the  porch  or  surrounded  the  house,  then  I  might 
'a'  thought  somethin'.  But  nothin'  like  that.  The  other 
five  are  down  at  the  corrals.  One's  doin'  sentry  over  yore 
horses,  an'  the  sergeant,  with  three  to  help  him,  is  goin' 
through  the  warbags  on  our  saddles." 

The  major  started  up  in  his  chair  and  rapped  out  a 
sharp  oath. 

"Yuh  see,"  continued  Johnny,  "they've  got  a  lantern 
an'  I  can  see  'em  right  plain  through  the  window  behind 
yuh.  An'  another  thing,  if  yuh  don't  want  a  feller  to  know 
how  few  men  yuh  got,  don't  leave  yore  saddles  all  out  in 
plain  sight  on  the  porch  for  anybody  to  count.  But  don't 
yuh  care,"  he  added  kindly.  "Everybody  makes  mis 
takes — at  first." 

The  major  was  understood  to  damn  the  West  and  all  its 
Westerners. 

"Now,  look  here,"  said  Johnny,  "I  know  yore  feelin's 
are  saddle-galled  somethin'  terrific,  but  you  rub  salve  on 
'em  an'  listen  to  Li'l  Willie  an'  stop  cussin'  so  a  gent  can 
get  a  word  in  edgeways.  S'pose  you  don't  walk  in  the 
water  so  much.  S'pose  you  tell  us  just  what  yo're  after. 


1 86  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

We're  good  fellers,  an'  helpin'  out  the  Army  is  right  where 
we  live." 

"I  believe  you're  a  pair  of  scoundrels,"  the  major  said 
uncertainly. 

Laguerre's  brows  drew  together,  but  Johnny  Ramsay 
merely  laughed. 

"We're  worse  than  that,"  he  averred,  and  laughed  again. 
"  But  we  don't  go  snoopin'  through  other  folks'  belongin's." 

"It  was  necessary,"  the  major  declared  gruffly. 

"Yuh  mean  you  thought  it  was.  Loosen  up,  can't  yuh, 
an'  tell  us  what  yo're  suspectin'  us  of?  Here,  read  this. 
It'll  prove  what  I've  been  tellin'  yuh.  Guess  I'd  ought  to 
showed  it  to  yuh  sooner." 

He  handed  Scotty's  letter  to  the  major.  The  latter  read 
it  carefully,  and  handed  it  back  to  Johnny. 

"Of  course,  it  could  be  a  forgery,"  grumbled  the  major. 

"Of  course  she  could,  an'  yuh  might  be  a  masquerade 
yore  own  self!"  barked  the  indignant  Johnny.  "How  do 
we  know  yo're  what  yuh  claim  to  be?  Yuh  might  be  a 
lightnin'-rod  agent,  for  all  we  can  tell." 

"Now,  now,  no  recriminations,  please,"  soothed  the 
agent,  stepping  forward  to  the  table.  "I  told  you,  Major, 
that  these  men  carried  a  letter  from  their  employer,  and 
that  I  knew  they  were  what  they  claimed  to  be.  I  tell  you 
quite  frankly  that  I  think  you're  making  a  mess  of  it  and 
that  the  colonel  will  not  be  pleased." 

The  close-set  black  eyes  of  the  moon-faced  major  stared 
angrily  up  into  the  bored  ones  of  the  Indian  agent. 

"This  matter  requires  a  certain  delicacy  of  treatment, 
as  it  were,"  the  agent  went  on  suavely,  "and  you,  Major, 
are  a  trifle  too  direct.  Better  let  me  do  it." 

"Oh,  very  well,"  snarled  the  major.  "Have  it  your 
own  way." 


THE  INEXPLICABLE  RED-HEAD          187 

He  rose,  kicked  back  his  chair  with  unnecessary 
violence,  and  stalked  thumpingly  from  the  room.  The 
agent  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the  table,  stuck  his  hands 
into  his  pockets,  and  smiled  at  the  two  ruffled  stray 
men. 

"Mustn't  mind  the  major,"  he  remarked.  "He  means 
well,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing,  but  he  will  try  to  browbeat 
people,  and  that  doesn't  work — ever.  I'm  afraid,"  he 
added,  "that  the  major  has  a  suspicious  nature." 

"Oh,  no,  not  a-tall,"  grinned  Johnny,  his  good  humour 
completely  restored. 

"There  have  been  quite  a  few  robberies  and  murders  in 
Sunset  and  Fort  Creek  counties  lately,"  observed  the  agent 
suddenly  serious.  "I  understand  that  all  these  crimes  are 
supposed  to  have  been  committed  by  the  same  gang,  and 
that  the  gang  is  a  large  one.  Am  I  right?" 

"S'posin'  an'  knowin'  are  two  different  horses." 

"You  don't  know  anything  definite  about  the  gang, 
then?" 

"Nobody,  in  the  Territory — exceptin'  the  gang — does,  I 
guess." 

"Well,  I'd  hoped  that  you  might  be  able  to  tell  me  some 
thing.  You  see,  within  two  or  three  weeks  the  Army  pay 
master  will  arrive  at  Fort  Yardley.  The  troops  will  have 
a  three-months  pay-day — forty  or  fifty  thousand  dollars. 
And  that  amount  of  money  is  not  to  be  sneezed  at  by  any 
band  of  outlaws.  The  colonel  has  been  warned  that  the 
bandits  are  planning  to  attack  the  paymaster  and  his  escort 
somewhere  between  Damson — where  he  will  leave  the 
railroad — and  the  fort.  So,  knowing  that  you  two  came 
from  the  vicinity  of  the  Bend,  the  colonel  thought  you 
might  be  able  to  give  us  a  little  information  concerning 
these  robbers." 


1 88  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

"Did  the  colonel  expect  to  find  the  information  in  our 
warbags?"  inquired  Johnny. 

The  agent's  cheeks  reddened. 

"That  was  the  major's  idea,"  he  declared  warmly. 
"I  advised  against  it.  I'm  afraid  the  major  came  pre 
pared  to  dislike  you." 

"He  still  does/'  supplemented  Johnny.  Then  he  asked 
curiously,  "When  was  the  colonel  warned  o'  this  hold-up?" 

"Two  or  three  days  ago." 

"Would  yuh  mind  tellin'  who  warned  him?" 

"It  was  that  red-headed  man — the  one  who  arrived  here 
as  you  were  leaving  with  Yellow  Bird.  Says  his  name's 
Camp,  Barry  Camp." 

"The  red-head!     HimP 

"You  seem  surprised,"  said  the  agent  with  a  sharp  look. 
"Why  shouldn't  it  be  he?" 

"No  reason  a-tall,"  Johnny  replied  hastily.  "Kind  o' 
funny-lookin'  jigger,  ain't  he?" 

"Hm-m-m." 

The  agent  pursed  his  lips  and  stared  steadily  at  Johnny. 
After  a  moment  he  nodded  as  if  in  answer  to  a  self-asked 
question,  and  locked  long-fingered  hands  behind  his 
head. 

"Tell  me  what  you  know  about  him,"  he  said  quietly. 

"I  don't  know  nothin' — much,"  drawled  Johnny,  and 
gave  the  agent  a  brief  account  of  the  killing  of  Mat  Neville. 

Of  his  own  surmises  concerning  the  red-head  he  made  no 
mention. 

"Quick  on  the  trigger,  eh  ?"  was  the  agent's  comment  on 
the  tale.  "He  looks  the  part.  I  don't  like  him.  He  has 
the  face  of  a  criminal.  He's  been  on  the  reservation  before 
once.  Bought  a  horse,  I  think.  He's  greatly  interested 
m  you  two  and  your  doings." 


THE  INEXPLICABLE  RED-HEAD         189 

"Is  he?"  The  eyes  of  Johnny  shifted  sidewise  and  met 
those  of  Laguerre. 

''You'd  think  so,"  the  agent  said.  "After  you'd  gone 
away  with  Yellow  Bird,  he  tried  to  pump  me  about  you. 
I'll  admit  he  was  clever  enough.  No  open  questioning  or 
anything  like  that.  But  I  knew  what  he  was  trying  to  do. 
I  haven't  lived  with  the  wily  Indian  all  these  years  for 
nothing.  He  got  small  satisfaction,  I'm  afraid.  I  don't 
lead  well." 

"Maybe  it  would  'a'  been  just  as  well  if  yuh'd  led  better 
— this  time,"  remarked  Johnny. 

"So  that's  it,"  chuckled  the  agent.  "Well,  I  didn't 
know,  and  I  don't  know  anything — much." 

"What  I  meant  was  that  we  don't  care  if  the  red-head 
did  know  we  was  after  some  rustled  bosses,"  Johnny  ex 
plained  smoothly.  "He  ain't  our  idea  of  somethin'  to  be 
afraid  of." 

"Exactly,"  agreed  the  agent.  "You're  a  man  of  dis 
cernment.  On  certain  subjects  I  believe  we  think  alike. 
I  hope  we  do." 

"Why  yeah,"  said  Johnny.  "I  ain't  none  shore  what 
yo're  whirlin'  yore  loop  at,  but  help  yoreself." 

"My  estimate  of  your  character  is  more  firmly  based 

then  ever,"  chuckled  the  agent.  " the  luck!  If  it 

hadn't  been  for  the  major  I'm  sure  you'd  have  talked  to 
some  purpose.  That's  all  right.  Look  as  innocent  as  you 
please." 

"Well,  I  didn't  steal  the  chicken,"  grinned  Johnny,  who 
was  rapidly  losing  his  initial  dislike  for  the  agent.  "An' 
I  don't  like  white  meat  a  li'l  bit,  but  would  yuh  mind  tellin' 
me  whether  our  red-headed  friend  was  the  one  put  the 
colonel  up  to  investigatin'  our  records?" 

"You  wrong  the  red-head.     He  cast  no  suspicion  on 


190  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

you.  Indeed,  so  positive  was  he  in  his  statements  that 
your  probity  was  all  that  it  should  be  that  the  colonel 
began  to  think  you  were  too  good  to  be  true.  Hence  the 
major  and  his  rough-hewn  tongue." 

Johnny  shook  a  helpless  head.  Laguerre  looked  up 
at  the  ceiling  and  scratched  his  left  ear. 

"I  dunno  what's  the  matter  with  that  red-head," 
Johnny  said  slowly.  "He  dunno  us  except  to  say  ' How 
dy,'  he  ain't  got  no  special  call  to  love  us,  anj  he  don't  owe 
us  a  sou  marquee.  Whyfor  should  be  spread  himself  to 
give  us  a  recommend?" 

"You'll  have  to  ask  him." 

"If  he'd  only  called  us  hoss  thieves  or  something  I 
could  understand  it,"  pursued  Johnny,  unheeding.  "That 
would  be  natural,  but  this  ain't.  She's  shore  a  cruel  world 
for  the  wicked.  Gimme  the  makin's,  will  yuh,  Telescope? 
I'm  plumb  afoot  for  tobacco." 

"Well,"  said  the  agent,  with  an  air  of  mock  sadness, 
"the  United  States  Army  will  have  to  do  the  best  it  can 
without  your  help.  I  certainly  wish  you  luck  in  your 
business  of  locating  stray  horses." 

"Thanks,"  Johnny  said  dryly.  "Is  the  red-head  round 
the  reservation  now?" 

"He  may  be,  but  I  imagine  he's  gone  back  to  the  fort. 
He  didn't  stay  here  more  than  an  hour  or  two." 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

TWO    AND    TWO 

JOHNNY  and  Laguerre  spent  the  night  in  their  blan 
kets  on  the  hospitable  porch  of  the  agent.  In  the  morn 
ing  they  took  the  trail  for  Fort  Yardley.  They  started 
before  the  moon-faced  major  had  his  detail.  But  half 
way  to  the  fort  the  soldiers,  their  horses  dripping  with 
sweat  and  white  with  lather  where  leather  touched  hair> 
overtook  and  passed  them.  The  officer  gazed  over  the 
heads  of  the  stray  men,  but  they  were  not  the  sort  to  be 
ignored  against  their  will. 

"Tell  the  colonel  we're  comin',  Major,''  shouted  Johnny. 
"Yuh  might  ask  him  to  have  a  li'l  drink  or  two  on  ice 
while  yo're  about  it." 

"You  ride  so  fas'  you  weel  foundair  de  hoss,"  bawled 

Laguerre.  "Un  den  M'sieu  le  Colonel  weel  raise wit' 

you." 

The  two  rearmost  cavalrymen  risked  court-martial  to 
turn  in  their  saddles  and  grin  their  appreciation.  It  is  not 
often  that  the  soldier's  heart  is  made  merry  by  civilian 
chaffing  of  an  unpopular  officer.  And  the  major  was  dis 
tinctly  not  popular  in  his  squadron. 

"That  colonel  may  just  be  fool  enough  to  put  us  in  the 
mill,"  said  Johnny,  coughing  in  the  dust  of  the  cavalry's 
passing,  "but  we  gotta  risk  goin'  through  the  fort.  Any 
way,  they  can't  prove  nothin'." 

"We're  all  right,"  averred  Laguerre.  "  'Less  dat  major  she 
lie." 

191 


192  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

"I  wouldn't  put  it  beyond  him.  Leastwise  I  bet  yuh 
he  could  stretch  the  truth  an'  not  strain  his  conscience  a 
heap,  Gawd  bless  him." 

Laguerre  nodded  absently. 

"Eef  dat  red-head  be  de  bad  man  why  she  say  we  good 
boy?"  he  puzzled,  after  a  long  minute's  silence.  "De 
blame  for  de  hold-up  o'  de  paymaster  mus'  be  on  some 
body.  'Ere  we  are?  W'y  not  us?" 

"That's  just  the  natural  thing  for  a  gent  to  do,"  Johnny 
said  promptly.  "I've  been  scratchin'  the  head  about  this, 
an'  I  figure  her  this  away.  Yore  ordinary  swizzletail  who's 
figurin'  on  other  folks'  money  does  his  best  to  set  the  blame 
on  some  gent.  When  he's  done  that,  the  poor  fool  thinks 
he's  safe.  He  don't  realize  that  chuckin'  the  blame  that- 
away  is  the  first  step  in  cinchin'  it  on  himself.  'Cause, 
do  yuh  see,  straight  gents  ain't  quick  nohow  to  put 
the  kibosh  on  anybody.  An*  they  ain't  quick  to  give  a 
jigger  they  dunno  a  good  recommend  either.  See  any- 
thin'?" 

"I  see  w'at  you  mean,  but " 

"Didn't  that  agent  tell  us  the  red-head  went  out  of  his 
way  to  say  what  li'l  Sunday-school  scholars  we  was?  He 
ain'  no  shorthorn,  an'  he  suspects  us  o'  bein'  after  him, 
I  tell  yiih,  an'  he  guesses  right  that  to  have  the  soldiers 
corral  us  or  even  suspect  us,  we'd  shore  suspect  him  o' 
bein'  somethin'  besides  a  long-legged  stepladder  with 
funny  eyes  an'  red  hair.  There  yuh  got  it  in  words  of  one 
syllable." 

"Yes,  yes,"  Laguerre  broke  in  impetuously,  "but  she 
have  warn'  de  colonel,  dat  red-headed  man.  I  dunno 
w'y  she  do  eet,  but  I  'ave  tink  un  tink,  un  by  gar  she  ees 
hones'  ting  for  do." 

"Aw!     Three  hells  an'  a  dam,  Telescope!"  exclaimed 


TWO  AND  TWO  193 

Johnny  in  amazement.  "What  yuh  talkin'  about?  Are 
yuh  crazy?" 

"Naw,  I  ain'  crazy.     You  are  de  crazy,  mabbeso." 

"Say,  look  here,"  entreated  Johnny,  and  tapped  his 
saddlehorn  with  a  stiffened  forefinger.  "Don't  yuh  know 
it  ain't  natural  to  warn  the  soldiers  of  nothin'  in  this  coun 
try?  If  the  Injuns  or  rustlers  run  off  any  o'  their  bosses, 
don't  we  think  she's  a  fine  joke  ?  S'pose  some  of  'em  come 
to  town  an'  get  skun  at  draw,  don't  we  laugh  some  more? 
S'pose  now  their  paymaster  is  robbed  ?  Serve  him  right, 
says  we.  Them  officers  never  had  any  sense  nohow,  an' 
we'd  laugh  ourselves  sick. 

"  Do  yuh  think  we'd  go  outa  our  way  to  warn  'em  to 
look  out  for  their  dinero?  Do  yuh  think  so?  I  guess  not, 
old-timer,  I  guess  not.  We  wouldn't  travel  two  feet  to  do 
it.  An'  now  here  this  red-headed  skinumarink  rides  from 
hell  to  breakfast  to  tell  'em  some  naughty  men  in  the  dark 
an'  lonesome  hills  are  a-layin'  for  their  darlin'  paymaster 
an'  his  li'l  box  o'  gold  beads.  An'  yuh  think  the  red 
head's  doin'  somethin'  natural  an'  honest!  Aw , 

Telescope.  Aw some  more!" 

"But  w'y  she  do  eet,  den?"  demanded  the  unconvinced 
half-breed. 

"I  dunno  why,  I'm  aimin'  to  find  out." 

"Yuh  weel  see  den,  by  gar." 

"Meanin'  that  yo're  right,  huh?  I'll  just  go  yuh, 
Telescope,  one  hundred  to  fifty,  or  higher  if  yuh  like,  that 
warnin'  the  C.  O.  is  some  kind  o'  trick." 

"I  weel  not  bet  wit'  you,"  Laguerre  declared  hastily. 
"Yuh  ees  too  lucky.'' 

Whereupon  Johnny  overwhelmed  him  with  derision. 

When  the  two  stray  men  rode  into  Fort  Yardley  a  full 
troop  was  standing  to  horse  in  front  of  the  stables.  The 


i94  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

punchers  stopped  at  the  post  trader's  for  tobacco,  matches, 
and  air-tights.  While  the  trader  was  handing  down  the 
canned  tomatoes  from  an  upper  shelf  the  troop,  in  column 
of  twos,  thudded  jinglingly  past  the  door. 

"Whatsa  matter?"  asked  Johnny.  "Why  for  the 
army?" 

"Damfino,"  replied  the  trader.  "Them  cavalry's  al 
ways  ridin'  round  some'ers." 

"I  s'pose  they  gotta  earn  their  li'l  ol*  pay  somehow," 
nodded  Johnny.  "Seen  anythin'  o'  Barry  Camp  here 
lately?" 

"Barry  Camp?" 

"Red-headed  gent  with  lots  o'  legs." 

"That  long-geared  feller?  Shore,  he  was  here.  Went 
away  this  mornin'." 

"Did  he  say  where  he  was  goin'?" 

"Shore  did.     Seymour  City." 

"Are  yuh  shore  he  said  Seymour  City?" 

"O'  course  I'm  shore.  I  remember  it  was  Seymour 
City,  'cause  he  done  said  so  more'n  once  while  he  was 
talkinV  Thus  the  trader,  with  some  heat. 

"No  offence,  stranger,"  soothed  Johnny.  "I  was  just 
kind  o'  surprised  Barry  didn't  leave  no  word  for  us.  He 
didn't,  did  he?"  he  added  hastily. 

"Not  with  me." 

"Well,  I  guess  maybe  it  don't  matter.  Better  gimme 
six  more  sacks  o'  that  tobacco,  an'  another  box  o'  matches." 

"Deed  yuh  see  who  was  officier  een  dat  troop?"  inquired 
Laguerre,  when  they  had  remounted,  and  were  riding 
south  in  the  wake  of  the  cavalry. 

"Yuh  was  nearest  the  door,"  said  Johnny,  shaking  his 
head. 

"Dat  major  wit'  de  face  all  same  full  moon,"  nodded 


TWO  AND  TWO  195 

Laguerre,  "un  two  lieut'nant,"  he  appended,  with  an  eye 
to  accuracy. 

Johnny  swore  sharply. 

"Yeah,  she  ees  one  fool,"  said  the  half-breed. 

"I  didn't  mean  that  so  much.  But  he'll  make  trouble 
for  us  if  he  can,  an*  I  was  kind  o'  figurin'  on  taggin'  along 
south  to  Damson.  That  red-head,  Telescope,  is  a  feller 
we  gotta  watch." 

"Mabbeso  she  go  to  Seymour  City.  We  weel  go  dere 
too.  I  know  girl  een  Seymour  City."  Laguerre  cocked 
a  hopeful  eye  at  Johnny. 

"The  red-head  ain't  never  goin'  to  Seymour  City,'' 
declared  Johnny,  "or  if  he  does  she's  only  for  a  blind.  He 
won't  do  nothin'  important  there,  yuh  can  gamble  on  it. 
Didn't  that  trader  say  the  red-head  says  twice  how  he  was 
goin'  to  Seymour?  An'  he  ain't  the  kind  to  tell  his  busi 
ness  free  for  nothin'  to  a  gossipin'  gent  like  a  post  trader 
without  a  reason.  An'  we  can  look  for  that  reason  a  lot 
nearer  than  Seymour  City." 

"You  ees  worse  dan  Ol' Crook,  Johnny,"  sighed  Laguerre. 
"  By  gar,  w'en  I  was  scout  for  de  Gray  Fox  I  was  ride  ovair 
de  country  lak  de  speerit  was  chasse  me,  but  I  was  have 
res'  now  un  den.  I  t'ink  I  was  eedjit  fool  for  follow  you, 
mabbeso.  Huh?  Naw,  I  weel  not  leave  yuh.  Yuh 
would  geet  los'  or  somet'ing." 

Laguerre  laughed  slyly,  and  began  to  hum  an  old,  old 
song  of  faraway  Quebec. 

An  hour  out  of  Fort  Yardley  the  two  stray  men  thought 
it  well  to  leave  the  trail.  For  the  red-head  was  suspicious 
of  them.  Both  had  been  witnesses  of  Mat  Neville's  death. 
And  there  were  many  places  on  the  trail  south  where  an 
ill-intentioned  man  might  lie  in  ambush  and  calm  security 
and  shoot  and  shoot  again. 


196  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

So  they  rode  the  canons  to  the  east  and  came  out  at 
last  into  the  valley  of  the  Dogsoldier  on  the  range  of  the 
Flying  M.  Scotty  and  Doubleday  were  with  the  outfit 
somewhere  in  Cavalry  Valley,  the  cook  told  them,  when 
they  came  to  the  ranch-house  kitchen  demanding  food. 

Being  a  regular  person,  the  cook  asked  no  questions,  but 
he  stood  in  the  doorway  and  scratched  his  head  and  looked 
after  them  as  they  rode  away. 

"They  been  out  Gawd  knows  how  long,"  he  muttered. 
"They  come  in  at  four  in  the  aft'noon,  stuff  'emselves  to 
the  back  teeth  with  chuck,  catch  up  fresh  hosses,  an'  away 
they  go  like  they  hadn't  a  minute  to  live.  Them's  shore 
the  most  energetic  stray  men  I  ever  seen." 

From  the  Flying  M  Johnny  and  Laguerre  rode  straight 
to  Paradise  Bend,  their  object  to  make  judicious  inquiry 
concerning  the  red-head.  But  that  labourwas  saved  them. 
Passing  the  hotel  they  saw  the  man  himself,  his  heels 
higher  than  his  head,  sitting  in  a  tip-tilted  chair  on  the  hotel 
porch.  He  nodded  gravely  to  them,  and  they  returned 
the  nod  and  rode  on  to  the  hotel  corral,  where  they  un 
saddled.  Within  the  stockade  the  red-head's  blue  horse 
was  dozing  on  three  legs.  There  were  no  sweat-marks  on 
the  horse's  hide. 

"That  hoss  ain't  been  rode  today,"  Johnny  murmured 
to  Laguerre.  "The  red-head's  waitin'  round  for  some- 
thin'." 

Dragging  their  saddles,  they  entered  the  hotel  by  the 
side  door.  They  left  their  saddles  in  the  barroom  and 
drifted  across  the  street  to  Soapy  Ragsdale's  store.  But 
Soapy  was  not  in,  and  small  Buster  knew  not  his  where 
abouts. 

"Le's  go  down  to  the  stage  station,"  suggested  Johnny. 

They  went  and,  outside  the  stables,  they  found  Racey 


TWO  AND  TWO  197 

Dawson  polishing  two  mules  with  a  trace-chain.  It 
appeared  that  Racey  wished  to  harness  the  mules  to  a 
buckboard.  The  mules  harboured  other  intentions. 

"An'  I  thought  Racey  didn't  know  how  to  cuss,"  ob 
served  Johnny  with  placid  delight,  and  squatted  down  on 
his  heels  to  enjoy  the  view.  "Ain't  them  the  fightin'est 
mules?" 

"They  are,"  agreed  a  gloomy  voice  above  him. 

Johnny  looked  up  into  the  face  of  a  corporal  of  cavalry. 

"An'  me,"  continued  the  corporal,  unhappily  watching 
the  mules  try  to  shuck  themselves  out  of  their  collars,  "an 
me  I  gotta  drive  them  bunches  of  dynamite  from  here  to 
the  railroad  an'  back  to  Fort  Yardley.  Gawd!" 

The  corporal  departed  muttering.  Johnny,  a  thought 
ful  crease  between  his  eyes,  rose  to  his  feet  and  with  La- 
guerre  went  to  help  Racey.  The  latter  was  not  grateful. 
He  desired,  profanely,  to  know  why  they  hadn't  come 
sooner.  He  dwelt  monotonously  on  this  point  till  a  mule 
bit  his  leg  and  distracted  his  attention. 

Came  then  a  cavalry  lieutenant  and  the  Wells-Fargo 
agent,  Tug  Wilson.  The  latter,  fairly  drunk,  essayed  to 
assist  the  three  in  their  labours. 

"Gotta  help  get  the  bu-buckboard  ready,"  he  gabbled, 
clinging  to  a  front  wheel  and  diffusing  abroad  the  rank 
odour  of  raw  whisky.  "Bu-buckboard  for  pup-pup-pay 
master.  Rashey,  ol'  boy,  I  wu-wish — say!  Whasher 
matter?" 

For  the  lieutenant  had  slipped  a  muscular  arm  under 
Wilson's  elbow  and  was  striving  gently  to  pry  the  agent 
from  his  point  of  support. 

"Let's  go  into  the  office,"  was  the  officer's  earnest  sug 
gestion.  "Let's  go  right  now." 

"I  wan*  hell-help  harnesh  mu-mu-mu-hools  for  pup-pup- 


198  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

pupple-paymaster,"  Tug  Wilson  declared  with  owlish 
intentness.  "Pup-paymaster  goin'  bring  money — losh 
money — thu-thu-thoushands  an'  thoushands!" 

In  order  fully  to  impress  upon  his  hearers  the  magnitude 
of  the  amount,  Tug  Wilson  released  his  grip  on  the  wheel 
and  spread  wide  his  arms.  The  lieutenant  profited  by 
the  opportunity  to  draw  away  the  agent  from  the  buck- 
board  and  tow  him  bargewise  in  the  direction  of  the  office. 

"Paymaster,  huh!"  exclaimed  Racey,  battering  the  off 
mule  into  his  proper  place.  "Now  why  can't  the  pay 
master  use  a  ambulance,  I'd  shore  like  to  know?" 

Johnny  knew  the  answer  to  Racey's  question.  But 
he  said  nothing,  and,  by  dint  of  a  quick-working  eye  and 
much  natural  agility,  contrived  to  hook  the  traces  of  the 
off  mule  without  being  kicked. 

"Gawd  help  the  corp'ral!"  grunted  Racey  Dawson, 
when  the  vivacious  team  was  finally  hooked  in.  "Betcha 
ten  they  bust  the  buckboard  on  him,  Johnny." 

"Gimme  one  to  ten  an'  I'll  go  yuh,  hawg,"  countered 
Johnny.  "What  yuh  want,  a  shore  thing?" 

"That's  the  only  way  I'd  ever  win  any  of  yore  money, 
old-timer.  Where's  that  corp'ral?  Wow- wow-whoop! 
Cavalry —  here's  yore  team!" 

The  corporal  came,  wiping  his  mouth,  and  climbed, 
swearing  under  his  breath,  into  the  buckboard. 

"Turn  'em  loose,"  he  grunted,  his  feet  braced,  the  reins 
wrapped  round  his  wrists. 

Johnny  and  his  friends  moved  quickly.  So  did  the 
mules.  The  buckboard,  bouncing  limberly,  careered  away 
into  the  soft  dusk. 

"It's  a  wild  life  in  the  Far  West,"  observed  Johnny,  look 
ing  after  the  retreating  vehicle.  "The  corp'ral,  he  didn't 
say  nothin'  about  no  paymaster." 


TWO  AND  TWO  199 

"I  guess  maybe  he  forgot/*  Racey  hazarded  lightly. 

"I  expect  maybe  he  did,"  drawled  Johnny,  and  went 
on  to  tell  Racey  a  few  things. 

"Oh,  yeah,"  said  Racey,  when  his  brain  had  grasped 
the  significance  of  Johnny's  words.  "Oh,  yeah,  I  did 
notice  how  the  loot  looked  worried  when  Tug  began  to 
chatter  about  the  paymaster  an'  his  coin.  A  full  troop's 
here  now.  They're  camped  north  o'  town  a  ways.  Shore, 
they're  the  outfit  you  seen  at  Fort  Yardley.  That  cussin' 
corporal  told  me  they'd  just  come  from  there.  Say,  if 
she  wasn't  so  serious,  I'd  laugh.  Think  o'  that  shavetail 
tellin'  Tug  what  he  wanted  the  buckboard  for!  Tug!" 

Racey  snorted  in  vast  contempt.  From  the  rear  of  the 
stage  station  drifted  the  sound  of  voices  raised  in  argu 
ment. 

"Listen  to  the  loot  tryin'  to  sober  up  Tug,"  chuckled 
Johnny. 

"It'll  take  more'n  language  to  do  that,"  said  Racey. 
"C'mon  over.  Maybe  they'll  fight  or  somethin'." 

"Nemmine  what  they  do.  We  want  to  know  what 
happened  since  we  left." 

"Not  a  thing.  The  Bend's  been  stiller  than  a  church 
on  Monday." 

"How  long's  the  red-head  been  here?" 

"Got  in  yesterday — Now,  wait,  wait,  before  yuh  go 
bawlin'  questions.  I  ain't  quite  a  witless!  I  been  watchin* 
him  all  I  could  ever  since  he  got  in  an'  he  ain't  been  inside 
the  Broken  Dollar." 

"That  don't  prove  nothin'.     He  might  'a' " 

"He  might,"  interrupted  Racey,  "but  he  didn't,  old- 
timer.  'Cause  yest'day  afternoon  Slay  went  ridin'  with 
Dorothy  Burr,  an'  this  mornin'  him  an'  his  sister  an'  Doro 
thy  went  ridin'  again,  so " 


200  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

"Again!"  Blankly. 

"Yeah,  again,"  Racey  declared  with  relish.  "What's 
it  to  yuh?" 

"Me?  Nothin'!"  Ruffled  indignation  on  the  part 
of  Johnny. 

"Seems  to  me  I  heard "  began  the  irritating  Racey, 

and  paused,  his  expression  demurely  innocent. 

"It  don't  matter  what  yuh  heard,"  Johnny  averred 
hastily.  "Them  long  ears  o5  yores  are  liable  to  hear 
most  anythin'.  Y'ought  to  pin  'em  back,  Racey,  oP 
boy." 

"I  expect,"  grinned  Racey.  "As  I  was  sayin',  Johnny, 
before  yuh  began  to  stutter  an'  get  so  red  an'  funny- 
lookin',  this  here  Slay  and  the  red-head  didn't  have  no 
chance  to  get  together.  I'd  a'  knowed  it,  if  they  had. 
Maybe  they  dunno  each  other." 

"Maybe.     We'll  see.     When  did  the  soldiers  sift  in?" 

"S'afternoon.     Guess  they'll  be  driftin'  in  the  mornin'." 

"When  they  do  I'm  goin'  to  trail  'em." 

"Whaffor?" 

"I  want  to  see  what's  goin'  to  happen." 

"Nothin'll  happen.  Them  soldiers  won't  let  it.  Yo're 
wastin'  time.  Ain't  he,  Telescope?" 

The  half-breed  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"I  dunno,  me,"  said  he.  "One  thing  good  as  anudder, 
I  guess." 

"That's  right,  let  Johnny  think  he  knows  it  all!"  railed 
Racey.  "He's  bad  enough  now,  but  first  thing  yuh  know 
he  won't  be  fit  to  live  with.  Tell  yuh  what,  Johnny,  s'pose 
now  I  go  south  with  yuh  'stead  o'  Telescope." 

"Telescope's  gotta  watch  out  for  the  red-head." 

"Fine,  then  I'll  go  with  yuh." 

"No,  yuh  won't.     Somebody's  gotta  stay  here  an'  look 


TWO  AND  TWO  201 

after  Harry  Slay.  Maybe  the  red-head  will  leave,  see? 
Then  where'd  we  be  with  nobody  in  the  Bend?" 

"Then  you  stay  here  an'  lemme  go,"  urged  Racey. 
"I'm  sick  o'  wrastlin'  bosses  an'  mules." 

"Whatsa  matter?"  Johnny  demanded  keenly.  "Don't 
yuh  enjoy  goin'  to  the  Broken  Dollar — an'  playin'  the 
wheel?" 

It  was  Racey's  turn  to  flush,  which  he  did  grandly. 

"Luck's  only  a  word  to  me,"  he  said  self-consciously. 

"She  is  to  some  folks,"  agreed  Johnny.  "They's  a 
right  pretty  lady  runnin'  the  wheel.  Didja  notice  her?" 

"  I  never  did  like  black  hair,"  dodged  Racey.  "  Yaller's 
my  favourite." 

"Good  strong  colour,"  was  Johnny's  comment  as  he 
winked  at  Laguerre.  "Feel  like  goin'  down  to  the  Broken 
Dollar  with  us,  Racey,  for  a  li'l  whirl?" 

"I  shore  don't,"  was  Racey's  answer. 

"Maybe  the  Harper  boys'll  be  there,  an' "  began 

Johnny. 

"Maybe  they  won't,"  interrupted  Racey.  "Spill  ain't 
been  round  town  for  quite  a  while,  an'  Bale  he  slides  out 
some'ers  yest'day." 

"Yest'day,  huh.  Before  or  after  the  red-head  drifted 
in?" 

"After." 

"Oh,  he  did,  did  he?  Ain't  he  the  cunnin'  li'l  rascal? 
Mis'  Burr  or  the  cap'n  home  yet?" 

"The  cap'n's  still  out  on  his  route,  but  the  Missus  she's 
home — I  heard." 

"Ain't  yuh  seen  her?" 

"How  would  I  see  her?"  demanded  Racey  with  what 
seemed  most  unnecessary  heat.  "I  don't  go  romancin' 
that  end  o'  town." 


202  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

"  Yuh  don't," drawled  Johnny,  his  eye-corners  puckering. 
"Well,  I  wouldn't,  either — considerinV' 

"What  yuh  mean  by  that?"  snarled  Racey,  with  a  very 
red  face. 

"I  was  just  thinkin'  it's  a  wild  night  on  the  canal," 
twinkled  Johnny.  "Yessir,  them  waves  must  be  some 
thing  tremendous." 

"You  go  to  an'  the  Broken  Dollar,"  Racey  told 

him.  "Me,  I'm  gonna  look  at  that  red-head  person." 

Racey,  stiff-backed  to  exaggeration,  marched  away. 
Johnny  and  Laguerre  dropped  down  to  the  Broken  Dollar. 
As  they  passed  the  few  playing  the  wheel — it  was  before 
the  evening  rush  of  customers — the  radiant  Mrs.  Wallace 
saw  them  and  nodded  brightly.  Harry  Slay,  standing 
tall  and  watchful  at  the  end  of  the  long  bar,  saw  them  and 
nodded  not  so  brightly. 

The  two  stray  men  drank  sparingly  of  their  liquor  and 
watched  the  occupants  of  the  room  with  carefully  casual 
eyes.  They  were  hoping  that  the  red-head  would  appear. 
But  of  the  many  who  came  in  at  the  open  door  that  evening 
the  red-head  was  not  one.  When  the  hands  of  the  wall 
clock  above  the  bar  came  together  at  midnight,  Johnny 
yawned  prodigiously  and  in  a  loud  voice  suggested 
bed. 

Once  in  the  outer  dark  the  two  separated,  Johnny  to  go 
in  search  of  Racey,  and  Laguerre  to  watch  the  Broken 
Dollar  from  the  vantage-point  of  Finnegan's  wood-pile 
across  the  street.  Johnny  did  not  find  Racey  at  the  hotel. 
The  bartender  did  not  know  where  the  young  man  had 
betaken  himself.  The  red-head  was  nowhere  to  be  seen, 
and  Johnny  inwardly  and  heartily  cursed  the  recreant 
Racey.  Then  he  reflected  with  an  incongruous  sense  of 
deep  injury  that  it  was  just  like  Racey  to  go  off  without  a 


TWO  AND  TWO  203 

word.  Might  know  it!  If  a  man  wanted  things  done 
right  he  had  to  do  'em  himself! 

The  red-head's  saddle  lay  in  a  corner  of  the  barroom. 
But  Johnny  was  not  satisfied.  He  borrowed  a  lantern 
and  looked  over  the  horses  in  the  corral  till  he  found  the 
red-head's  blue. 

"He  must  be  round  town  some'ers,"  Johnny  told  himself, 
as  he  closed  the  gate. 

Johnny,  wishing  he  was  triplets,  went  down  to  the  stage 
station.  He  shook  a  hostler  awake,  vehemently  demand 
ing  tidings  of  the  station-boss.  But  the  hostler  was  equally 
vehement  in  his  denial  of  any  knowledge  concerning  Racey 
and  his  movements. 

The  baffled  Johnny  was  now  more  than  ever  out  of  pa 
tience  with  the  world  and  its  works.  Hurriedly  leaving 
the  vicinity  of  the  station  and  careless  as  to  the  placing 
of  his  feet,  he  walked  straight  into  the  business  end  of  a 
horse  that  had  in  some  manner  escaped  from  the  corral. 
Johnny  did  not  know  that  this  particular  horse  happened  to 
be  a  mule,  but  he  knew  that  there  was  no  time  to  dodge. 

Those  intimately  acquainted  with  the  horse  and  its 
hybrid  know  that  when  there  is  no  time  to  dodge,  one  must 
heartily  crowd  the  hindquarters  in  question.  In  this  way 
the  kick  is  transformed  into  a  push.  Johnny  crowded — 
hard.  The  mule  delivered  its  nudge  with  both  heels. 
The  stray  man  moved  sharply  to  the  rear  and  sat  down 
splashily  in  the  overflow  from  the  station  watering-trough. 
The  mule  went  elsewhere  at  a  gallop. 

Johnny  swore  aloud  for  he  had  meant  to  rock  the  mule. 

He  rose  hastily,  feeling  very  wet  and  itchy,  and  tenderly 
fingered  his  well-barked  shins.  Hobbling  and  muttering, 
he  returned  to  Laguerre.  The  Broken  Dollar  was  still  in 
full  blast. 


204  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

"  Slay's  gotta  go  home  some  time,"  Johnny  said,  half 
an  hour  later.  "Guess  I  better  go  an'  scout  up  the  house. 
Maybe  the  red-head's  there  waitin'  for  him.  Wish  I 
could  find  Racey.  Hell's  bells,  she's  a  wonder  I  didn't 
break  my  leg!" 

The  unsympathetic  half-breed  chuckled,  and  Johnny 
departed  wrathfully.  At  a  little  distance  he  halted  and 
removed  his  spurs. 

The  house  of  the  gambler  was,  of  course,  dark,  but 
Johnny  circled  it  with  no  more  noise  than  that  made  by  a 
light-footed  cat  and  lay  down  between  two  little  balsams 
some  thirty  feet  from  the  edge  of  the  front  porch.  He 
would  have  been  pleased  to  go  closer,  but,  were  the  red 
head  within,  such  a  manoeuvre  would  be  disastrous. 

Thus  he  lay  and  waited,  while  the  flying  squadrons  of 
the  night  lit  and  made  merry  upon  exposed  portions  of  his 
anatomy.  In  the  intervals  of  killing  midges  and  buzz-bugs 
he  found  time  to  think  on  a  subject  that  more  than  hazily 
filled  the  far  background  of  his  mind. 

"It's  a  shame,"  he  reflected,  "the  way  that  jigger  Slay 
is  makin'  himself  too  popular.  This  is  shore  gettin'  serious. 
First  thing  Dorothy  knows  she'll  wake  up  'an  find  herself 
married  to  this  feller." 

Johnny  rolled  his  eyes  at  the  very  idea  and  slew  a  buzz- 
bug  that  was  creeping  into  his  ear. 

"If  I  could  only  show  how  Slay's  a  road  agent  quick  an' 
sudden,"  he  went  on  glumly,  "it  would  be  a  heap  provi 
dential,  an'  it'd  save  me  trouble — a  whole  lot  o'  trouble. 
I  wouldn't  have  to  go  fussin'  round  cuttin'  Slay  out  with 
the  lady.  As  if  I  wanted  to  marry  Dorothy!  Scotty's  a 
plumb  fool,  the  oF  bushwhacker.  Why,  if'I  did  I  bet  she'd 
make  me  save  money!  Yessir,  I'll  bet — she — she  was 
plenty  pretty  when  she  was  makin'  them  pies.  An'  she 


TWO  AND  TWO  205 

can  shore  cook.  Aw,  what  I  wanna  get  married  for! 
Time  enough  when  I  get  to  be  an  old  man." 

He  conjured  before  his  mind's  eye  a  vision  of  the  lady 
he  would  like  to  marry  when  an  old  man.  Strangely 
enough  the  vision  bore  a  most  remarkable  resemblance  to 
the  young  and  winsome  Dorothy  Burr. 

"Well,  if  she  ain't  married  by  then,  maybe  I  will  marry 
her,"  he  told  himself  generously. 

In  some  ways,  Johnny  Ramsay  was  tediously  young. 

The  slithering  sound  of  a  pebble  kicked  into  action  by 
an  advancing  foot  flattened  Johnny  to  the  ground.  A 
bobbing  spark  appeared  above  the  path  leading  to  the 
house.  The  spark  glowed  as  the  smoker  inhaled  deeply 
and  revealed  the  thin-lipped  mouth  and  long  pointed  nose 
of  the  gambler,  Slay.  Johnny  heard  the  thin  rustle  of 
taffeta  and  then: 

"Don't  walk  so  fast,  Harry,"  begged  a  soft,  sweet 
voice. 

"You  will  wear  high  heels,"  replied  Harry,  slackening 
not  his  pace. 

"You  want  me  to."     Reproachfully. 

"Well,  I- 

"  Let's  not  quarrel  to-night,  please,"  urged  the  sweet 
voice.  "I'm  so  tired." 

""You're  always  tired  lately,"  said  Slay  irritably. 
"What's  the  matter  with  you,  anyway?" 

"I  think  it's  my  nerves." 

"Nerves!  You're  a  fine  one  to  have  nerves.  What  are 
you  going  to  do — give  wray?" 

"I  only  know  I'm  awfully  tired."  The  sentence  trailed 
off  in  a  weary  little  sigh. 

"You  can  rest  on  the  porch,"  grunted  Slay.  "Here  we 
are." 


206  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

Two  figures  were  silhouetted  a  moment  against  the 
stars  and  Johnny  perceived  that  the  smaller  was  a  good 
ten  feet  behind  the  larger. 

"Guess  she's  his  sister  all  right  enough,"  thought  the 
cynical  Johnny. 

The  figures  vanished  in  the  utter  darkness  of  the  porch. 
Chair-legs  scraped  along  the  boards.  A  V-shaped  splotch 
of  white  showed  against  the  blackness. 

"I  would  take  off  my  shawl  if  I  were  you!"  observed 
.Slay  sarcastically.  "You -wore  it  wrapped  round  you  all 
the  way  up,  and  now " 

Obediently  the  V-shaped  splotch  disappeared. 

"What  do  you  want  to  do — catch  cold?"  went  on  the 
petulant  Slay. 

"How  solicitous  we  have  become!"  A  rising  note  of 
"hysteria  was  in  the  tone  of  her  voice. 

"You're  needed  in  the  business,"  came  the  direct  state 
ment  pat  as  a  slap  in  the  face. 

"Some  day  I  shall  certainly  leave  you."  The  lady's 
voice  was  no  longer  hysterical.  It  was  icy  with  anger. 

"No,  I  don't  think  you  will." 

"Oh,  won't  I?" 

"No,  Sis,  I  don't  believe  you  could  ever  bring  yourself 
to  leave  darling  brother." 

"You  natter  yourself." 

"Do  I?" 

There  was  no  answer,  and  then  Slay  laughed  a  low,  un- 
cheerful  laugh. 

"We've  got  to  stick  together,  and  you  know  it,"  he  said 
earnestly.  "We  may  have  our  little  spats  now  and  then, 
but  they  don't  mean  anything.  We  both  have  tempers — 
and  must  make  allowances  accordingly." 

"Oh  certainly,  by  all  means  we  must  make  allowances! 


TWO  AND  TWO  207 

You  mean  that  you  may  be  as  hateful  as  you  please  and  I 
must  make  the  allowances." 

"Try  and  preserve  your  sense  of  proportion,  can't  you?" 

Mrs.  Wallace  laughed  aloud.  Oddly  enough,  it  was  a 
laugh  of  genuine  amusement. 

"You're  more  insufferable  than  a  husband,"  she  ex 
claimed. 

"Oh,  you  know." 

"I  do.  I  do  indeed.  I've  known  a  few  men,  and  of  all 
the  masses  of  conceit  I  ever  ran  across,  you  are  the  most 
massive." 

"Huh."     Contemptuously. 

"Huh  all  you  please.  You  think  I'm  tied  to  you,  do 
you?  By  what,  if  you  please?  Common  interests? 
Have  we  any?  If  so,  what  are  they?  Sisterly  affection? 
My  dear  man,  that  vanished  long  ago.  Remains  then — 
what? 

"I  tell  you  quite  frankly  that  I  don't  know  what  keeps 
me  in  the  neighbourhood.  I've  put  up  with  your  nagging 
and  utter  selfishness  for  a  great  deal  longer  than  has  been 
good  for  me,  and  some  day,  Mister  Man,  you  will  receive 

a  vivid  surprise That's  right,  swear,  do!  Be  just 

as  disagreeable  as  you  can!  But  remember  I've  warned 
you." 

Johnny  heard  Mrs.  Wallace  rise,  heard  the  brisk  click 
of  her  high  heels  as  she  walked  across  the  porch  into  the 
house,  heard  the  vicious  slam  of  the  front  door,  and  cursed 
inwardly. 

"That's  always  the  way,"  he  mourned.  "Just  when 
she's  ready  to  blat  out  somethin'  worth  while  she  gets  mad 
an'  hops  in  the  house.  An'  all  I  wanted  was  a  li'l  word. 
Now,  I'll  bet  the  red-head  won't  even  come." 

Johnny  disconsolately  watched   the  firefly  spark  and 


208  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

glow  of  Slay's  cigar  end.  The  midges  and  buzz-bugs 
revelled  undisturbed.  Johnny  did  not  dare  make  any  noise. 
He  did  not  know  how  acute  might  be  the  gambler's  hear 
ing. 

At  long  last  Slay  threw  away  his  stub  and  lit  another 
cigar — and  still  nothing  happened.  This  was  not  in  the 
least  like  a  detective  story  Johnny  had  once  read.  In 
the  said  absorbing  tale  the  hero  had  eaves-dropped  with 
great  abandon,  obtaining  thereby  the  most  important  in 
formation.  In  one  instance  the  villain,  while  the  hero  lay 
concealed  under  a  bed,  soliloquized  at  some  length  to  his 
own  ultimate  confusion  and  the  profit  of  the  clever  sleuth. 

"The  feller  that  wrote  that  book  shore  didn't  know  what 
he  was  talkin'  about,"  concluded  Johnny.  "Here's  all  the 
chance  in  the  world  for  Slay  to  tell  the  story  of  his  life  an* 
he  sits  there  like  a  dumb  bump  on  a  log.  It  ain't  right." 

Silence  endured  on  the  porch  and  among  the  balsams 
for  the  greater  part  of  two  hours.  The  east  began  to 
lighten  and  Johnny  began  to  perspire.  For  he  knew  that 
he  could  not  depart  unheard,  and  he  was  averse  to  shoot 
ing  Slay  beneath  the  bedroom  window  of  his  sister,  as  it 
were.  It  would  be  too  much  like  murder.  Yet,  should 
Slay  continue  to  sit  and  the  east  continue  to  lighten  he 
would  be  compelled  to  do  that  very  thing — or  be  himself 
shot.  Johnny  cautiously  dragged  out  his  six-shooter. 

Ten  minutes  later  Slay  went  into  the  house.  The  door 
had  barely  closed  when  Johnny  was  wriggling  backward 
along  the  ground.  Within  three  minutes  he  was  walking 
to  the  hotel  in  the  cool  grayness  of  the  new  day. 

Johnny  had  two  hours  sleep  and  appeared  at  breakfast 
a  trifle  blear-eyed.  He  found  Laguerre  and  the  red-head 
eating  side  by  side.  Johnny  nodded  to  them,  wolfed  his 
meal  in  silence,  and  hurried  down  to  the  stage  station. 


TWO  AND  TWO  209 

"I  thought  you  was  goin*  to  watch  the  red-head  last 
night,"  he  said  to  Racey,  in  the  comparative  privacy  of 
the  open  space  in  front  of  the  corrals. 

"I  did  watch  him  till  him  an*  Soapy  an'  Jim  Mace  an* 
Carey  got  to  playin'  draw  over  in  Soapy' s  place.  Then  I 
drifted  after  tellin'  Soapy  to  come  wake  me  when  they  got 
through.  I  knowed  Soapy  could  be  trusted  thataway, 
an'  I  was  Gawd  awful  sleepy,  so  I  bedded  down  adjacent 
under  that  freight-wagon  beyond  the  waterin'-trough. 
But  Soapy  didn't  come,  an'  I  slept  till  mornin'  except  once 
when  some  drunkard  come  stumblin'  round  an'  got  all 
tangled  up  with  Smith's  mule  Dolly,  an'  Dolly  she  kicked 
the  poor  fool  into  the  waterin'-trough,  an'  he  went  off  cuss- 
in'  an'  swearin'. 

"Serve  him  right.  I  felt  like  kickin'  him  myself,  wakin' 
me  up  an'  all.  Whatsa  matter?  What  yuh  lookin'  at  me 

so  funny  for,  huh  ?  Look Say,  they's  dried  mud  on 

yore  chaps!  I'll  bet  you  was  that  drunkard,  Johnny! 
It  was  you!  By  Gawd  I  know  it  was  or  yuh  wouldn't 
look  at  me  thataway.  Didn't  yuh  know  no  better'n  to 
go  pullin'  Dolly's  tail?  Gee,  that's  rich.  Here!  What- 
yuh  tryin'  to  do?" 

SPLASH! 

For  Racey,  in  his  carelessness,  had  been  leaning  against 
the  upper  end  of  the  watering-trough,  and  Johnny,  a-tingle 
with  the  memory  of  Dolly  and  the  futile  hours  spent  with 
buzz-bugs,  had  yielded  to  the  impulse  of  the  moment. 


CHAPTER  XIX 
BUSHWHACKERS 

NO,  JOHNNY,  Dorothy  ain't  home.  She  went  out 
ridin'  with  Harry  Slay.  So  yo're  workin'  for 
Scotty,  now,  huh?  How's  tricks  with  you? 
Yo're  lookin'  fine.  When  did  yuh  leave  the  Cross-in-a- 
box?  An'  how's  that  good-for-nothin'  Jack  Richie  brother 
o'  mine?  I  declare,  yuh'd  think  he'd  never  had  a  sister 
the  way  he  don't  write.  Land  sakes,  here  I  am  a-keepin' 
yuh  a-standin'  there  an'  not  askin'  yuh  in.  But  that's 
me.  I  always  was  careless  about  my  manners. 

"C'min,  Johnny,  an'  rest  yore  hat.  There's  Benjamin's 
partic'lar  chair,  an'  yuh  can  roost  yore  feet  on  the  rung  an* 
talk  to  me  while  I  mix  up  a  cake — chocolate  cake,  Johnny. 

Yuh'll  stay  to  dinner,  o'  course What?  One  o' 

Benjamin's  partic'lar  personal  friends  an*  yuh  trot  right 
off  thisaway?  Yuh  gotta  stay  to  dinner.  I  wanna  hear 
all  about  Tom  an'  Kate  an'  that  li'l  Junior  child.  I  know 
you've  seen  'em.  Just  you  go  right  now  an'  put  that  ca- 
yuse  in  the  corral." 

Tall,  angular  Mrs.  Burr  slapped  her  arms  akimbo.  Her 
harsh  features  radiated  hospitality  as  she  beamed  at  Johnny 
Ramsay.  But  that  perturbed  young  man  took  no  com 
fort  in  her  smiles.  Dorothy  had  gone  riding  again  with 
Slay! 

"I  can't  stay,  Mis'  Burr,"  he  told  her,  forcing  his  pleas- 
antest  expression.  "I'd  shore  like  to,  but  I  got  my  job 

210 


BUSHWHACKERS  211 

to  look  out  for.     I  guess  I'll  be  weavin'  along.     S'long. 
See  yuh  later." 

Johnny  stuck  foot  in  stirrup,  slid  into  the  saddle,  and 
whirled  his  horse.  Mrs.  Burr  followed  his  progress  to 
Main  Street  with  wistful  eyes.  She  liked  Johnny  Ramsay. 

The  red-head  was  not  visible  on  the  hotel  porch  when 
Johnny  passed  down  Main  Street.  But  his  horse,  as 
Johnny  took  good  care  to  make  sure,  as  he  rode  by,  was 
in  the  corral.  On  two  chairs,  tiptilted  against  the  facade 
of  Ragsdale's  store,  sat  the  proprietor  and  Telescope  La- 
guerre.  The  attitudes  of  both  men  were  patently  lethar 
gic,  but  they  came  alive  sufficiently  to  nod  to  Johnny. 
Laguerre  even  jiggled  a  languid  hand.  After  which  the 
half-breed  pulled  his  hat-brim  forward  and  appeared  to 
fall  into  a  gentle  doze. 

Johnny's  mouth-corners  quirked  with  satisfaction. 
From  the  sidewalk  in  front  of  Ragsdale's  store  a  man  might 
without  effort  observe  all  that  went  on  in  the  vicinity  of 
the  hotel  and  the  corral.  Likewise,  Main  Street,  from  the 
same  vantage-point,  was  open  to  the  view  throughout  its 
breadth  and  length. 

Beyond  the  river  the  trampled  trail  was  evidence  enough 
that  the  cavalry  had  passed  that  way.  Johnny,  to  whom 
the  grind  of  trailing  appealed  not  at  all,  suddenly  resolved 
to  change  his  plans  and  precede  the  military  to  the  railroad. 

"Why  for  have  I  gotta  swallow  their  dust  for  a  week?" 
he  asked  himself.  "Maybe  if  I  hit  Damson  ahead  of  'em 
I'll  learn  somethin'  real  nice  an*  nifty,  which  is  me,  yores 
truly,  forty  ways  from  the  jack." 

To  avoid  a  meeting  with  the  soldiers  Johnny  and  his 
mount  departed  from  the  trail  and  the  canons  of  the  region 
swallowed  them  up. 

Four  days  later  Chuck  Morgan's  wife,  swabbing  out  her 


212  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

dish-pan  in  the  old  C  Y  ranch-house  on  Soogan  Creek, 
was  startled  by  the  abrupt  arrival  of  a  scrubby-faced  young 
man  who  said  he  was  hungry.  Jane  Morgan  was  not  an 
inquisitive  person,  but  she  wondered  as  she  fed  the  traveller, 
why  Johnny  Ramsay  was  in  such  a  hurry  and  why  he 
wasn't  even  decently  communicative.  It  wasn't  like  him 
— either  the  hurry  or  the  short  answers.  Poor  boy,  he 
looked  tired  out. 

"Have  another  cup?"  she  asked,  poising  the  coffee-pot 
invitingly. 

"  I'm  full  to  the  roof  o'  my  mouth,"  said  Johnny,  shaking 
his  head.  "Guess  I'll  just  smoke  a  pill  while  the  li'l  hoss 
rests  his  feet.  The  oats  yuh  gimme  will  put  new  life  in 
him.  How's  Chuck?" 

It  is  to  be  feared  that  Johnny  was  in  an  abstracted  mood 
that  day.  For  he  could  not  have  definitely  told  how 
Chuck  was  two  minutes  after  Jane  Morgan  had  replied. 

Within  two  days  Johnny  Ramsay,  choosing  the  night 
time  for  his  entry,  oozed  unostentatiously  into  Marysville, 
the  county  seat  of  Fort  Creek  County.  He  went  at  once 
to  the  house  of  Judge  Allison,  his  very  good  friend.  The 
jurist,  wise  in  his  generation,  made  no  comment  when 
Johnny  drew  down  every  blind  in  the  judicial  sitting  room. 
He  gave  Johnny  a  drink  of  excellent  whisky,  hearkened 
while  the  stray  man  asked  a  question,  and  slowly  shook 
his  white  head. 

"The  local  bad  men  are  accounted  for/'  he  said.  "We 
only  had  three.  The  Circle  S  outfit  lynched  Dave  Long 
last  week,  and  Little  Bill  and  Slim  Edwards  became  em 
broiled  in  the  small  matter  of  an  extra  ace  day  before  yes 
terday  and  most  considerately  eliminated  themselves — 
Yes,  I  know  there  are  in  town  two  or  three  others  that  will 
bear  watching,  but  these  few  are  small  fry,  lacking  the 


BUSHWHACKERS  213 

heart  for  great  enterprise.  Is  it  a  fair  question  to  ask 
why  you " 

The  judge  put  his  finger  points  together  and  looked  in 
quiringly  at  Johnny. 

"Well,  yuh  see "  hesitated  the  stray  man. 

"  There,  there,  that'll  do,"  said  the  judge  hastily. 
"  Don't  bother  to  explain.  I  shouldn't  have  asked.  How's 
business  up  where  you  are?" 

Johnny's  eyes  twinkled. 

"'Yo're  a  real  human  man,  Judge,"  he  said.  "I  wish 
I  could  tell  yuh,  but  I  ain't  none  too  certain  about  a  lot  o* 
things  myself.  Know  a  jigger  named  Bale  Harper, 
Judge?"  " 

Judge  Allison  was  one  of  those  happily  gifted  folk  that 
never  forget  names  or  faces. 

"  When  I  was  in  the  Bend  two  years  ago,"  was  the  judge's 
answer,  "Jim  Mace  pointed  out  Bale  Harper  to  me. 
Why?" 

"I  was  just  wonderin'  if  by  any  chance  the  gent  had 
been  in  Marysville?" 

"He  is."   " 

"Oh,  he  is,  is  he?"  chuckled  Johnny,  his  eyes  glinting 
in  the  lamplight.  "How  long  has  he  been  here?" 

"  Since  day  before  yesterday.  I  was  on  the  porch  of  the 
Sunrise  when  he  rode  in." 

"Come  alone?" 

"No,  there  was  a  man  with  him,  a  customer  even  more 
tough-looking  than  Friend  Bale,  name  of  Keen." 

Johnny  banged  a  resentful  fist  on  his  knee. 

"Might  'a'  knowed  it!"  he  cried.  "I  clean  forgot  all 
about  Tom  Keen  when  I  was  in  the  Bend.  When  did 
yuh  see  'em  last,  Judge?" 

"This  afternoon  in  the  Sunrise." 


2i4  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

"Maybe  they've  gone." 

"We  can  easily  decide  that  point.  Suppose  we  step 
down  to  the  Sunrise  for  a  smile.  If  they're  not  there  we'll 
look  about." 

"I  ain't  a  heap  anxious  to  have  'em  see  me,"  objected 
Johnny. 

"In  that  case  allow  me  to  play  the  detective,"  suggested 
the  accommodating  judge.  "There's  a  Chicago  paper  on 
that  shelf." 

While  Johnny  sat  and  waited  and  read  the  Chicago  paper 
came  the  sound  of  footsteps  on  the  sidewalk.  The  feet 
stopped  at  the  judge's  door  and  knuckles  rapped  on  the 
panel. 

Johnny  muttered  appropriately  at  this  mischance  and 
started  to  tiptoe  across  the  floor. 

Before  he  could  reach  the  doorway  giving  access  to  the 
dining  room,  the  front  door  opened.  Johnny  promptly 
altered  course  toward  a  match  safe  hanging  on  the  wall 
and  glanced  over  his  shoulder.  The  man  looking  in  out 
of  the  night  was  Jack  Murgatroyd,  the  slimmer  and  older 
half  of  Sheriff  Stahl's  force  of  deputies.  His  eyes,  small 
and  bright  as  black  beads,  stared  at  Johnny.  He  nodded 
curtly,  entered,  closed  the  door  behind  him,  wiped  his 
swarthy  features  on  his  sleeve  and  remarked  that  it  was  a 
hot  night.  Johnny  Ramsay,  busily  engaged  in  stuffing 
his  hatband  with  the  contents  of  the  match  safe  on  the 
wall,  observed  that  it  was  hotter  than  that. 

The  deputy  appeared  to  ponder  this  statement  a  mo 
ment.  Then  he  crossed  the  floor  to  the  nearest  chair,  sat, 
and  rolled  him  a  cigarette.  Ever  a  silent  person  Jack  acted 
in  character  for  fully  fifteen  minutes  before  he  spoke. 
Johnny  had  long  since  returned  to  his  friend  the  Chicago 
paper. 


BUSHWHACKERS  215 

"Seen  the  judge?"  asked  the  deputy. 

Johnny  affected  to  be  startled. 

"For  Gawd's  sake,  Jack,"  he  exclaimed  with  admirably 
simulated  irritation,  "might  as  well  kill  a  man  as  scare 
him  to  death  thisaway.  I'd  clean  forgot  there  was  any 
body  else  in  the  room.  Some  day,  I'm  tellin'  yuh,  yuh'll 
strain  yore  throat  talkin'  so  much." 

Jack  smiled  wintrily. 

"I  shore  gotta  look  out  for  that  throat,"  he  said,  and 
smiled  again  his  January  smile.  "I  was  askin'  yuh  about 
the  judge." 

"He's  down  street  some'ers,"  replied  Johnny.  "Didja 
look  in  the  Sunrise?" 

"No."     Jack  shook  his  head. 

Ensued  another  long  silence. 

"Did  the  judge  have  a  game  on  or  somethin'?"  inquired 
the  deputy  suddenly. 

"There  yuh  go  again — an'  me  with  my  weak  heart." 

"Guess  yore  heart  an'  my  throat'd  make  a  pair, 
huh?" 

"Not  to  draw  to,"  denied  Johnny,  at  which  Jack  Murga- 
troyd  laughed  as  at  the  most  side-splitting  joke  and  re 
peated  his  question. 

"I  dunno,"  said  Johnny,  and  turned  a  sheet.  "He 
didn't  say  nothin'  about  no  li'l  game.  But  you  know 
Judge  Allison,  Jack,  he  don't  always  say  what  he's  goin'  to 
do  next." 

"I  expect,"  said  Jack  Murgatroyd. 

An  hour  later  Judge  Allison  returned.  He  greeted  the 
deputy  briefly  and  sat  down  before  his  table.  Murgatroyd 
dropped  his  cigarette  on  the  floor  and  crushed  it  beneath  a 
spurred  heel. 

"Just  stopped  in  to  tell  yuh  Judge,  that  they  won't  be 


216  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

no  trial  os  Hen  Riley  next  week,"  remarked  Mr.  Murga- 
troyd. 

"Why  on  earth  did  they  lynch  him?'*  queried  the  judge, 
jumping  at  the  most  natural  conclusion.  "That  Single 
bartender  wasn't  popular?" 

"They  didn't  lynch  him.  He  done  picked  the  lock  of 
the  calaboose  door  at  Rocket  an*  e-loped  on  the  sheriff's 
own  hoss." 

"Which  is  rather  ironical  when  you  stop  to  consider," 
observed  the  judge. 

"Ain't  it,"  said  Murgatroyd,  quite  at  sea  as  to  the  mean 
ing  of  the  word  "ironical."  "The  sheriff  an'  Chance  is 
trailin'  Hen  now  — he  rode  north.  But  Bill  Stahl's  Steam 
boat  is  one  fast,  sur-vigorous  cayuse." 

"Did  you  ride  from  Rocket  merely  to  tell  me  this  about 
Hen?"  ' 

"No,  I'm  just  passin'  through  on  my  way  to  the  railroad? 
an'  Bill  he  told  me  to  be  shore  to  stop  an'  tell  yuh  so's 
yuh'd  know  what  to  expect  when  Hen  didn't  show  up  on 
time.  Bill's  sendin'  me  to  Damson  an'  Piegan  an'  them 
towns  to  scout  round.  He's  got  a  idea  maybe  them  road 
agents  that's  been  hellin'  around  has  got  friends  or  some- 
thin'  on  the  railroad.  So  long,  Judge.  So  long,  Johnny. 
Hot  night." 

Jack  Murgatroyd  tilted  his  hat  and  was  gone. 

"I'll  bet  that's  the  first  long  speech  he  ever  made  in  his 
life,"  observed  Johnny. 

The  judge  nodded,  and  poured  himself  a  modest  two 
fingers. 

"He  must  have  been  drinking,"  he  suggested.  "There's 
the  bottle,  Johnny.  It's  your  move.  When  you've  made 
it,  we'll  adjourn,  if  you  don't  mind,  to  the  bench  back  of 
the  stable.  There's  a  breeze  there." 


BUSHWHACKERS  217 

"An*  that's  more'n  they  is  here  with  the  blinds  down 
an*  the  lamp  goin',"  grinned  Johnny.  "No  more,  thank 
yuh,  Judge.  Yore  whisky  ain't  the  stuff  to  make  a  habit 
of.  It  spoils  the  taste  for  ordinary  paint.  Any  time  yo're 
ready." 

There  was  not  much  of  a  breeze  on  the  bench  behind 
the  stable,  but  such  as  it  was  they  unbuttoned  their  shirts 
and  prepared  to  make  the  most  of  it. 

"They're  at  the  dance-hall,"  said  the  judge  in  a  low 
tone,  "and  not  in  the  main  part  of  the  building  either. 
That's  why  it  took  me  so  long  to  find  them.  They  were 
in  one  of  the  small  back  rooms.  Tom  Keen  was  sitting 
at  the  table  with  his  face  in  his  hands,  looking  at  nothing. 
Bale  was  walking  up  and  down.  Every  now  and  then 
he'd  stop,  pour  himself  a  fresh  drink  and  gulp  it  down. 
They  looked  as  if  they  were  waiting  for  something." 

"Maybe  they  are,"  observed  Johnny. 

The  judge  shot  him  a  sidewise  glance  and  fanned  his 
hot  face  with  his  hat. 

"What  did  they  do  when  yuh  went  in  the  room?"  ques 
tioned  Johnny. 

"I  didn't  go  in  the  room,"  was  the  judge's  ingenuous 
denial.  "I  saw  them  through  the  window." 

"Judge,  I'm  a-goin'  to  tell  yuh  somethin',"  Johnny  said, 
suddenly  feeling  that  Judge  Allison  had  earned  an  explana 
tion,  and  went  on  to  tell  the  jurist  of  his  present  mission  in 
life.  The  judge's  interest  was  flattering. 

"An'  that's  all  I  know,"  concluded  Johnny.  "What  do 
you  think?" 

The  judge  lit  a  cigar  before  replying.  He  regarded  the 
glowing  tip  in  silence  a  moment. 

"I  think  I  know  Barry  Camp,"  he  said  at  last.  "The 
description  tallies  with  that  of  a  tinhorn  who  used  to  oper- 


218  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

ate  in  Piegan  City  about  three  years  ago.  Dave  Yule  was 
the  name  he  used.  'Reddy'  Yule  the  boys  called  him. 
He  stayed  about  six  months,  then  he  shot  one  of  the  boys, 
and  public  opinion  bringing  pressure  to  bear  he  thought  it 
well  to  leave  town.  Your  friend  Camp  is  Yule.  No  doubt 
of  it.  That  hairless  face,  those  blank  staring  yellow  eyes, 
and  the  man's  other  characteristics  haven't  any  duplicates 

in  this  territory What?  No,  he  can't  be  arrested  for 

the  Piegan  City  killing.  It  looked  like  an  even  break." 

"Yeah,"  nodded  Johnny,  thinking  of  the  manner  of 
Mat  Neville's  death.  "That's  the  red-head's  specialty — 
makin'  it  look  like  an  even  break." 

"He's  clever." 

"He's  worse  'n  that.  Yuh  don't  remember  ever  seein' 
him  round  this  part  o'  the  country,  do  yuh?" 

"I  do  not.  I  never  even  heard  of  him  since  the  Piegan 
City  days  till  you  spoke  of  him  to-night.  But  I  think 
you're  wrong  in  one  premise,  Johnny.  That  red-headed 
tinhorn  and  Harry  Slay  are  not  partners  in  this  hold-up 
business." 

"You  must  'a'  seen  Mis'  Wallace,"  Johnny  said  keenly. 

"Petticoats  never  have  influenced  me,"  shot  back  the 
judge.  "I  know  Slay — played  draw  with  him  every  time 
I've  visited  the  Bend,  and  he's  anjionest  gambler.  When 
a  gambler  is  straight  in  his  profession  he  doesn't  walk 
crookedly  otherwise.  Slay's  all  right.  Just  because  he 
formed  a  slight  dislike  for  you " 

"Slight  dislike!"  cut  in  the  indignant  Johnny.  "He 
tried  to  have  me  lynched!" 

"But  then  you  sec  he  thought  you  were  a  road  agent," 
the  judge  explained  smoothly.  "His  action  was  natural." 

"Maybe  it  was,  but  it  don't  make  me  love  him  none. 
You  act  like  I'd  ought  to  kiss  him  or  somethin'." 


BUSHWHACKERS  219 

"You're  prejudiced  against  Slay,"  insisted  the  judge. 
"He's  no  friend  of  mine,  but  I  shouldn't  care  to  see  in 
justice  done  him — or  any  one.  By  the  way,  I  hear  he's 
engaged  to  Dorothy  Burr.  Is  it  true?" 

"It's  a  lie!"  cried  Johnny.  "He's  only  a  friend  of  hers, 
that's  all." 

Judge  Allison  smiled  into  the  darkness.  He  believed 
he  knew  the  reason  for  Johnny's  vehemence.  Rumour 
wears  swift  wings  in  the  cow  country — and  Captain  Burr's 
daughter  was  a  very  pretty  girl. 

"Guess  maybe  I'll  borrow  yore  a-larm  clock,  Judge," 
said  Johnny,  yawning  and  stretching  elaborately.  "I'll 
roll  in  on  yore  hay  in  the  stable.  I'm  gonna  drift 
south  at  four  so's  nobody  will  see  me.  I  might  be  back 
later." 

"You'll  sleep  in  the  house,"  the  judge  declared  firmly. 
"I've  an  extra  bed,  and  it's  yours.  Let's  go  in.  I'm 
sleepy  myself." 

At  a  few  minutes  past  four  in  the  morning  Johnny  Ram 
say  was  riding  the  Damson  trail.  At  six  o'clock,  when  his 
horse  topped  a  wooded  ridge,  a  backward  glance  revealed 
to  Johnny  that  two  horsemen  were  up  and  coming  on  the 
dusty  track.  Johnny  rode  on  thoughtfully,  thankful 
that  he  and  his  horse  were  invisible  among  the  trees. 

At  the  foot  of  the  reverse  slope  the  trail  crossed  a  gravelly 
wash.  Johnny  swung  his  horse  into  the  wash,  rode  along 
it  for  a  quarter-mile,  found  a  tiny  stream,  and  followed 
its  bed  to  where  it  bisected  a  round  and  grassy  basin  set 
cup-like  among  hills.  Which  hills  were  covered  with  a  thin 
growth  of  mournful  pines. 

Twenty  minutes  later  Johnny's  horse,  tied  to  a  pine, 
was  beginning  to  doze  peacefully  in  his  favourite  three- 
cornered  attitude,  while  his  master  lay  on  his  stomach 


220  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

behind  a  low  and  twisted  jack-pine  and  watched  the  dis 
tant  trail  with  alert  eyes. 

The  two  horsemen  lifted  into  sight  at  the  top  of  the 
sway-backed  ridge.  Black  dots  against  the  gray-green 
slope,  they  slid  down  to  the  gravelly  wash,  paused  not  at 
all,  and  held  on  along  the  trail. 

"Wish  I'd  thought  to  find  out  what  colour  bosses  Bale 
an'  Keen  was  ridin',"  lamented  Johnny,  his  eye-corners 
puckered.  "Bay — or  red,  these  two,  but  they  might  be 
straddled  by  first  an'  foremost  citizens  for  all  I  can  tell. 
Why  didn't  I  get  the  judge  to  find  out  for  me?" 

He  frowningly  constructed  a  cigarette,  lit  it,  and  rolled 
over  on  his  back  to  wait  a  decent  interval  before  riding  on. 
The  trail  and  the  two  riders  that  rode  it  were  hidden  behind 
a  swelling  fold  of  rising  ground  that  ran  in  a  long  half 
moon  across  the  face  of  the  land.  The  arc  of  the  half 
moon  bent  northward  and  the  trail  showed  again  in  a 
short  white  strip  beyond  the  western  horn  before  it  van 
ished  in  the  pale  green  coolness  of  the  cottonwoods  lining 
the  banks  of  Bubbling  Creek. 

On  the  farther  side  of  the  creek  the  trail  slanted  into 
sight  across  the  broad  breast  of  a  pillow-shaped  hill  with  a 
notched  shoulder  and  lost  itself  in  the  notch. 

Johnny,  flat  on  his  back,  finished  his  cigarette.  It  was 
eminently  peaceful  on  the  top  of  his  hill.  A  friendly  wind 
blew  softly  in  among  the  pines  and  made  them  sing. 
Johnny  pulled  his  hat  over  his  face. 

He  awoke  with  a  start,  rolled  over  on  his  elbows  and 
looked  about  him  suspiciously.  But  everything  was  as  it 
should  be:  the  horse  dozed  three-cornered,  the  sweet,  sharp 
odour  of  the  singing  pines  was  in  his  nostrils,  the  peace 
of  ages  continued  to  hang  upon  the  landscape.  Johnny's 
eyes  instinctively  sought  that  part  of  the  countryside 


BUSHWHACKERS  221 

where  the  trail  showed  white  beyond  the  western  horn  of 
the  half  moon  of  rising  ground.  And  as  he  looked  two 
darkish  dots  came  into  view  upon  that  streak  of  trail  and 
vanished  where  it  vanished  in  the  shadow  of  the  cotton- 
woods  along  the  creek. 

Johnny  waited  for  the  two  dots  to  reappear  on  the  trail 
where  it  crossed  the  slope  of  the  pillow-shaped  hill  with 
the  notched  shoulder.  They  did  not.  But  within  fifteen 
minutes  he  saw  them  doubling  back  toward  the  tip  of  the 
half  moon's  western  horn. 

"They's  boulders  there,  an'  one  fine  long  outcrop," 
said  Johnny  aloud. 

He  nodded  his  head  as  the  dots  left  the  trail  and  stopped 
several  hundred  yards  beyond  it,  and  well  inside  the  horn 
of  the  half  moon. 

"Leavin'  their  hosses  so  far  away  they  won't  whinner," 
he  went  on. 

Two  specks  detached  themselves  from  the  dots,  moved 
back  toward  the  trail  slanted  up  the  slope  to  the  horn  and 
disappeared  among  the  boulders. 

"Ain't  they  the  tadpoles!"  Johnny  observed  admiringly. 
"Yuh  might  almost  think  them  fellers  was  layin'  to  bush 
whack  somebody.  Yessir,  yuh  shore  might.  Maybe 
it's  another  hold-up  though.  The  Damson  stage  ought  to 
pull  through  in  an  hour.  Guess  Li'l  Willie  better  wait  an' 
watch  the  pretty  birdies." 

So  little  Willie  waited  and  watched  apathetically  till  a 
cloud  of  dust  lifting  and  drifting  above  the  horn  of  the 
half  moon  heralded  the  coming  of  the  southbound  stage. 
There  were  no  sudden  smoke-puffs  above  the  boulders. 
The  stage  appeared  on  the  streak  of  trail  leading  to  the 
creek.  The  two  men  in  ambush  made  no  hostile  move. 
The  stage  continued  without  interruption  to  the  creek, 


222  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

rolled  in  under  the  cottonwoods,  rolled  out  beyond  the 
ford,  and  snailed  upward  toward  the  notch  in  the  pillow- 
shaped  hill. 

"I  guess  I'm  elected  all  right,"  murmured  Johnny. 
"Range  is  two  thousand  easy,"  he  added,  pondering 
deeply.  "I'd  shore  like  to  know — guess  now  I  might  as 
well  go'n  find  put." 

He  rose  to  his  feet,  went  to  his  horse,  and  mounted. 
Taking  care  to  keep  happily  placed  ridges  between  himself 
and  the  men  lying  on  the  half  moon's  horn  Johnny  worked 
his  way  to  the  creek.  Heading  up-stream  toward  the  ford 
he  rode  warily  among  the  cottonwoods  till  no  more  than  a 
half  mile  of  level  ground  separated  him  from  the  horses  of 
the  bushwhackers. 

It  looked  like  a  good  place  to  stop.  For  there  were  red 
willows  growing  above  a  cutbank,  below  which  Bubbling 
Creek  ran  among  rocks  and  gossiped  to  itself  with  a  pleas 
ant  sound  of  splashing. 

Johnny  tied  the  horse  between  the  bank  and  the  willows, 
dragged  Daisy  Belle  from  the  scabbard  under  the  left 
fender  and  "Injuned"  forward  on  foot.  When  he  came 
near  the  ford  he  stopped  and  squatted  on  his  heels  behind 
a  thick  little  red  willow. 

The  horses  of  the  two  bushwhackers  were  not  more 
than  three  hundred  yards  distant.  Of  the  men  themselves 
he  could  see  nothing.  But  on  the  ridge  of  the  half  moon's 
horn  he  could  see  plainly  the  rocks  and  the  angling  white 
outcrop  that  hid  the  precious  pair. 

Crack!  A  rifle  spoke  among  the  rocks.  A  spurt  of 
smoke  drifted  across  the  outcrop.  Crack!  Crack!  Crack! 
Another  Winchester  joined  the  first.  The  marksman,  by 
the  smoke,  was  fortified  behind  a  large  boulder  on  the 
outcrop's  right  flank. 


BUSHWHACKERS  223 

Cra-ack!  A  pause.  Cra-ack!  Another  pause.  Cra-ack! 
Some  one  several  hundred  yards  beyond  the  bushwhackers 
was  shooting  very  methodically.  The  first  two  shots 
evidently  struck  and  stopped,  but  the  third  ricochetted 
and  keyholed  with  a  tearing  whistle  high  above  Johnny's 
head.  The  two  rifles  among  the  boulders  snarled  furiously, 
Occasionally  the  painstaking  rifle  in  the  distance  would 
reply. 

"By  the  racket  these  two  are  making"  observed  Johnny, 
with  a  grin,  "  Mister  Slowfire  on  the  other  side  must  V 
tickled  'em  up.  Maybe  they  ain't  after  me — by  Gawd!" 

The  oath  was  called  forth  by  the  idea  that  had  struck 
him.  It  was  an  excellent  idea,  and  it  contained  a  large 
element  of  risk. 

"But  they'll  be  too  busy  to  look  round,"  reasoned 
Johnny,  greatly  taken  with  his  excellent  idea.  "An'  if 
they  do " 

He  left  the  sentence  unfinished,  rose  to  his  feet,  cocked 
his  rifle,  and  started  toward  the  horses  of  the  bushwhackers. 
He  reached  them  without  incident,  calmly  picked  up  the 
trailing  reins  and  led  both  animals  back  to  the  cottonwoods. 

Once  in  the  shelter  of  the  belt  of  trees,  he  unhurriedly 
searched  the  saddle-bags  and  cantenas.  Among  other 
articles  in  the  pocket  of  one  cantena  he  found  a  flannel 
shirt  with  an  ancient  envelope  in  the  breast  pocket.  The 
envelope  was  filled  with  cigarette  papers.  So  ancient  was 
the  envelope  that  Johnny  could  not  at  first  decipher  the 
address.  But  finally,  by  holding  the  envelope  at  a  certain 
angle,  he  made  out  that  it  was  addressed  to  William  Harper 
at  Paradise  Bend.  Bale  Harper's  other  name  was  William. 

"Wish  they  hadn't  tore  the  stamp  an'  postmark  off," 
grumbled  the  never-satisfied  Johnny  Ramsay.  "I'd 
shore  like  to  know  where  she  was  mailed." 


224  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

Johnny's  busy  fingers  pried  into  the  saddle-bags  on  the 
other  horse.  There  was  nothing  in  them  to  give  a  hint 
to  the  owner's  identity.  Nor  was  there  anything  revealing 
in  the  cantenas.  He  loosed  the  slicker  tied  behind  the 
cantle.  There  were  no  marks  save  those  of  wear  on  that 
slicker,  but  its  removal  bared  to  public  gaze  a  staple 
pocket  on  the  back  of  the  cantle.  Some  one  had  burnt, 
with  a  running  iron,  on  the  flap  of  the  staple  pocket,  the 
initials  T.  K. 

"Tom  Keen,"  smiled  Johnny,  listening  to  the  sounds  of 
battle  on  the  half  moon's  horn.  "They  ain't  ridin'  this 
trail  for  no  good,  that's  a  cinch.  Mister!  just  listen  to 
'em  a-wastin'  cartridges  like  they  cost  nothin'.  They 
must  be  packin'  a  couple  o'  belts  apiece.  Wonder  who 
they're  shootin'  at." 

Johnny  felt  no  great  curiosity  as  to  the  identity  of  the 
unhappy  individual.  Whoever  he  might  be,  he  was  no 
friend  of  his,  of  course.  He  might  even  be  a  horse  thief 
or  some  one  equally  nefarious,  and  Messrs.  Harper  and 
Keen  might  be  engaged  in  a  kindly  deed.  Who  could  tell? 
Johnny,  being  a  sensible  person  with  business  of  his  own, 
had  no  intention  of  mixing  in  the  private  affairs  of  other 
men.  He  did  not  consider  the  removal  and  search  of  the 
bushwhackers'  property  in  the  least  out  of  the  way.  It 
was  necessary. 

"Guess  I'll  just  lead  these  cayuses  along  with  me 
awhile,"  observed  Johnny.  "Settin'  Bale  an'  Tom  afoot 
will  do  'em  a  whole  heap  o'  good." 

He  mounted  one  of  the  animals  and,  leading  the  other, 
rode  back  to  his  horse.  Arrived  at  the  clump  of  red  willows 
and  his  tail-switching  pony,  he  began  to  be  intrigued  in 
spite  of  himself  by  that  intermittent  firing  in  the  distance. 
It  was  palpably  none  of  his  business,  yet.  .  .  . 


BUSHWHACKERS  225 

The  man  lying  behind  the  dead  horse  in  the  middle  of 
the  trail  swore  feelingly  and  tucked  up  his  legs  as  a  bullet 
grazed  his  left  heel.  That  plunging  piece  of  lead  had  been 
the  tenth  nearly  to  make  him  a  cripple.  He  levered  in  a 
cartridge,  shoved  his  Winchester  across  the  neck  of  che 
horse  and  took  a  snapshot  at  a  smoke-filled  opening  be 
tween  two  boulders  on  the  crest  of  the  half  moon's  horn. 
He  did  not  expect  to  score  a  hit.  By  the  manner  in  which 
his  two  enemies  fought  he  judged  them  to  be  gentlemen 
of  experience,  and  gentlemen  of  experience  in  warfare 
either  dodge  or  change  position  after  each  shot,  and  these 
had  been  doing  both. 

It  was  an  exceedingly  one-sided  affair,  this  little  wayside 
brush.  The  sun  was  directly  in  the  eyes  of  the  man  behind 
the  dead  horse,  and  it  was  only  a  question  of  time  when  one 
of  his  foes  would  work  round  to  the  flank  and  rear.  Luck 
ily  there  was  no  cover  except  three  lone  cottonwoods  and 
an  outcrop  on  either  flank  or  the  rear  nearer  than  a  thou 
sand  yards. 

The  man  in  the  road  was  confident  of  being  able  to  drop 
any  one  sufficiently  ill-advised  to  attempt  to  reach  the 
cottonwoods  or  the  outcrop.  He  had  ammunition  in  suf 
ficient  quantity  to  make  it  interesting — for  a  while.  If  he 
could  stick  it  out  till  nightfall — or  if  a  friend  would  hap 
pen  that  way;  even  the  arrival  of  a  nodding  acquaintance 
or  a  total  stranger,  so  that  he  were  well-disposed,  would  be 
welcome. 

The  man  behind  the  horse,  having  emptied  his  magazine, 
awkwardly,  for  he  was  cramped  for  room,  began  to  stuff 
the  long  brass  shells  through  the  loading-gate.  Before 
he  completed  the  operation  three  bullets  had  furrowed 
the  hide  of  his  breastwork  and  one  had  grazed  his  shoulder. 
He  could  feel  the  blood,  warm  as  perspiration,  trickling 


226  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

down  his  chest.  The  wound  stung  and  made  him  thirsty. 
He  wished  for  a  drink  of  the  tepid  water  in  his  canteen, 
but  that  useful  article  was  lying  well  down  beneath  some 
nine  hundred  and  fifty  pounds  of  dead  pony. 

Cra-ack!  The  report  of  a  rifle  sounded  faintly  on  his  left 
front.  He  thought  instantly  that  the  enemy  had  begun 
to  work  round  him.  But  no  buzzing  piece  of  lead  sailed 
over  his  head  or  tucked  into  the  body  of  his  mount!  The 
rifles  of  his  enemies  ripped  into  hysterical  action.  No  lead 
came  his  way.  The  inference  was  obvious.  The  friend 
had  arrived. 

The  man  behind  the  dead  horse  backed  his  rescuer  shot 
for  shot.  The  latter  must  have  had  a  good  position,  for, 
while  the  fire  of  the  bushwhackers  dwindled  to  some  ex 
ceedingly  scattered  shooting,  the  other's  increased  steadily. 

A  quarter  of  an  hour  after  the  first  shot  from  that  dis 
tant  Winchester  the  bushwhackers'  rifles  were  silent.  A 
less  prudent  man  than  the  one  behind  the  horse  would  have 
gone  forward  to  investigate.  But  he  had  fought  the 
Indian  many  times.  There  might  be  a  trick.  He  was 
content  to  remain  where  he  was. 

Minutes  later  he  heard  shots  fired  on  the  other  side  of 
the  half  moon.  The  friendly  Winchester  had  not  ceased 
to  fire.  The  smoke  of  it  was  thick  among  the  distant 
boulders.  The  sound  of  the  shots  behind  the  crescent  be 
came  fainter  and  fainter. 

Suddenly  the  man  behind  the  dead  horse  jumped  to  his 
feet  and  ran  as  swiftly  as  his  high  heels  would  allow  toward 
the  tip  of  the  half  moon's  horn.  It  was  a  run  of  several 
hundred  yards.  He  arrived  out  of  breath  and  puffing  and 
plunged  down  behind  a  jagged  rock.  What  he  saw  was  in 
a  measure  gladdening.  Toward  the  cottonwoods  lining 
the  bank  of  the  creek,  two  men  were  scuttling  for  dear  life 


BUSHWHACKERS  227 

— literally.  About  their  hurrying  feet  jets  of  dust  sprang 
up  and  mushroomed  in  little  filmy  clouds.  The  man  threw 
his  rifle  forward  and  fired  again  and  again.  But  he  was 
too  shaken  with  fast  running  for  anything  even  approach 
ing  accurate  shooting.  The  two  men  charged  in  among 
the  trees.  The  man  sent  seven  shots  to  hasten  their  going. 
There  was  no  reply. 

So  he  lay  and  watched  the  belt  of  green  trees  for  a  time. 
But  nothing  happened.  He  took  off  his  hat  and  raised  his 
head  above  the  level  of  the  rock.  Not  a  shot.  Then 
he  rose  to  his  feet,  went  back  to  his  horse,  and,  with  his 
rifle-barrel,  levered  up  the  body  and  freed  the  canteen. 

Over  the  bulge  of  the  tilted  canteen  he  saw  riding  toward 
him  down  the  slope  of  the  half  moon,  a  young  man.  The 
young  man  was  leading  two  horses,  and  he  was  coming  at  a 
sharp  lope.  The  man's  black  eyes  glittered. 

"Good  boy,  dat  Johnny  Ramsay,"  said  Telescope 
Laguerre. 

"Yay,  old-timer!"  bawled  the  approaching  rider.  "I 
never  knowed  it  was  you  they  was  tryin'  to  rub  out  till  I 
come  scoutin'  along  the  rimrock  an'  recognized  yore  dead 
hoss.  Even  then  I  wasn't  a  heap  shore." 

"I  am  glad  you  was  tak  a  chance,"  said  Laguerre  simply. 
"I  tell  you,  my  friend,  I  t'ink  one  tarn  she  was  all  day  wit' 
me,  mabbeso.  Were  you  geet  de  two  cayuse?" 

"They  belong  to  them  bushwhackers,  Mister  Harper 
and  Mister  Tom  Keen,"  grinned  Johnny.  "They  was 
standin'  there  all  so  free  an'  handy,  so  I  just  glommed  on 
to  'em.  Climb  on,  Telescope.  We  ain't  got  time  to  blat 
round  here  thisaway." 

"  Yuh  wait  tell  I  geet  my  saddle  ofF.  I  wan'  for  see  w'ere 
dem  men  was  hide.  I  heet  one,  I  think,  me." 

"You  did  not.     They  ran  away  too  fast." 


228  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

"I  crease  one  mabbeso." 

"Like — say,  Telescope,  yo  re  nicked  yoreself!  Yore 
shirt's  all  blood.  How- 

"Small  leetle  graze,"  Laguerre  interrupted  impatiently. 
"Not  hurt 'tall/' 

He  fastened  his  own  saddle  behind  Bale  Harper's  cantle, 
swung  up  with  a  nimble  legsweep  and  galloped  up  the  slope 
with  Johnny. 

Carefully  refraining  from  exposing  their  persons  on  the 
skyline  they  inspected  the  places  where  the  bushwhackers 
had  lain.  There  were  many  spent  forty-five  ninety  shells 
scattered  about,  and  on  a  flat  rock  between  two  boulders 
a  splash  of  red. 

"Told  yuh  so!"  Johnny,  who  had  done  nothing  of  the 
kind,  hastened  to  say.  "Daisy  Belle  an*  me  are  shore 
reg'lar  folks.  We  never  miss." 

"You  tell  me  so!"  cried  Laguerre  indignantly.  "Yuh 
tell  me  so!  I  tell  yuh,  Johnny,  dat  was  my  shot  do  dat. 
I  was  see  dees  man  right  troo  de  sight,  an' " 

"Well,  all  right,  s'posin'  yuh  did,"  flashed  Johnny, 
switching  to  the  rightabout  with  pliant  ease.  "  S'posin' 
yuh  did.  What  good  did  yuh  do  ?  Lookit  the  way  he  run 
ofF.  Ragged  work,  Telescope,  ragged  work.  But  don't 
yuh  care.  Some  day,  if  yuh  watch  my  smoke  real  careful 
an'  profuse,  an'  if  yuh  can  get  as  good  a  rifle  as  Daisy 
Belle,  which  yuh  can't,  yuh  '11  maybe  learn  how  to  shoot. 
I  don't  say  yuh  will  certain  shore.  But  maybe  yuh 
will." 

Laguerre,  moved  to  wrathful  reply,  incautiously  stepped 
forward  beyond  the  outcrop.  Instantly,  from  the  spot 
where  the  trail  entered  the  cottonwoods,  a  rifle  cracked. 
A  bullet  struck  a  rock  at  his  right  hand  and  buzzed  ofF  at  an 
angle.  The  half-breed  dropped  behind  the  outcrop, 


BUSHWHACKERS  229 

clicked  in  a  cartridge  and  fired  at  the  drift  of  gray  smoke. 
He  would  have  fired  again,  but  Johnny  grabbed  him  by 
the  toe  of  his  boot. 

"C'mon,  c'mon,"  urged  Johnny.  "Them  sharps'll 
keep.  I  dunno  what  yo're  agoin'  to  do,  but  I'm  agoin' 
somewhere,  an*  I'm  agoin'  right  now  at  once.  I  wanna 
get  to  Damson  an'  I  can't  do  it  by  sittin'  here  watchin* 
you  blow  holes  through  li'l  cottonwood  trees  that  never 
didja  any  harm." 

"Nevair  you  min'  about  dem  tree,"  Laguerre  said 
placidly,  his  good  humour  completely  restored.  "You 
t'ink  yuh  was  de  shore  shot,  but  some  day  I  show  yuh,  by 
gar." 

He  crawfished  to  the  rear,  rolled  over  and  sat  upright. 
Rifle  across  his  knees  he  grinned  up  into  Johnny's  face. 

"Eet  ees  bes'  I  stay  here,  mabbeso,"  he  suggested. 

"What  for?" 

"W'y  yuh  guess  I  come  sout'?" 

"I  was  meanin'  to  ask  yuh  that  only  work's  been  sort 
o'  brisk  an'  busy  the  last  few  minutes.  I  bite.  Why?" 

'  'Cause  dat  red-head  she  ees  ride  aftair  de  cavalry,  she 
was  meet  de  cavalry,  un  she  was  ride  wit'  de  lieut'nant,  un 
stay  wit'  him,  by  gar.  I  do  not  unnerstan'  dat,  me.  So 
I  come  for  fin'  yuh.  I  tell  yuh,  Johnny,  I  have  t'ink  at  de 
firs'  dat  red-head  she  be  hones'-man.  Yuh  say  no.  Aw 
right.  Den  w'y  she  stay  wit'  de  cavalry?  W'at  kin'  o* 
chance  have  she  for  turn  de  treeck  eef  she  stay  wit'  de 
cavalry?" 

"How  do  yuh  know  he's  still  with  the  cavalry?  May 
be " 

"Mabbeso  yes.  I  know  she  ees  wit'  de  cavalry,  'cause 
I  was  een  de  camp  un  talk  wit'  de  corp'ral,  UK  I  hear  de 
lieut'nant  ask  heem  for  ride  wit*  de  troop,  un  I  hear  de 


230  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

major  say  de  same  t'ing,  un  dat  red-head  she  say  she  glad 
for  ride  wit*  de  troop.  Now  w'at  yuh  t'ink?" 

The  half-breed  smiled  a  triumphant  smile  and  rubbed 
his  rifle-stock  with  the  palm  of  his  hand.  Johnny  pushed 
his  hat  back  and  scratched  a  perplexed  head. 

"I  dunno,"  he  said  truthfully.  "But  there's  somethin' 
funny  about  all  this." 

"Somet'ing  ees  all  tarn  funny  about  dees,"  concurred 
Laguerre  sweetly,  climbing  into  his  saddle. 

"But  look  here,  Telescope — "  began  Johnny,  as  they 
rode  off*. 

"I  look  un  I  look,"  interrupted  the  half-breed,  "un  I 
tell  yuh,  my  frien',  de  more  I  look  de  less  I  see  un,  I  t'ink, 
by  gar,  dat  ees  de  way  wit'  yuh." 

"Yuh  do,  huh?"  yapped  Johnny,  stung  in  a  tender  spot. 
"Well,  it  ain't,  not  for  a  minute.  Never  think  it,  old- 
timer.  Just  yuh  wiggle  along  with  me,  an'  yuh'll  see." 

"W'at  will  I  see?"  demanded  Laguerre. 

"Lots,"  was  the  somewhat  vague  reply. 

"Mabbe  I  do  un  mabbe  I  do  not.  Anyway  I  t'ink  I  see 
somet'ing  eef  I  stay  here.  To-morrow  de  cavalry  un  de 
red-head  weel  come,  un  I  wan't  for  see  w'at  dem  bush- 
w'ackair  do.  Perhaps  dey  weel  shoot  de  red-head." 
Laguerre  licked  his  lips  and  looked  hopeful. 

"Yo're  crazy,"  averred  Johnny.  "There's  no  hope  for 
yuh,  Telescope,  not  a-tall.  I'm  the  jigger  they're  after." 

"You." 

"Li'l  ol'  me.  I'm  the  hairpin  they  expected  to  down 
when  you  come  along  an'  natur-ally  you  was  better'n 
nothin'  so  they  cut  down.  But  it  was  all  more  or  less  an 
accident — huh?  Shore  I  know  it  was  me.  I  was  in 
Marysville  when  Bale  Harper  an'  Tom  Keen's  there.  I 
light  out  before  daylight  an'  I  look  back  when  I'm  some 


BUSHWHACKERS  231 

ways  along  an'  here  they  come.  Yuh  know  that  wash  a 
while  back? 

"Yeah,  that's  where  I  left  the  trail.  Well  I'm  on  a  hill 
watchin'  when  Harper  an'  Keen  rip  down  the  trail,  an' 
they  don't  stop  at  the  wash  at  all,  just  kept  foggin'  right 
along  like  they  knowed  where  they  was  a-goin'  an'  in  a 
hurry  to  get  there,  till  they  scattered  round  this  ridge, 
picked  out  their  particular  rocks,  an'  lay  down  to  wait.  If 
they'd  been  trailin  me  they'd  'a'  stopped  at  the  wash  an* 
scouted  up  an'  down  to  see  which  way  I  went.  Instead 
o'  that  yuh  know  what  they  did." 

"They  must  see  you  track  een  de  trail." 

"Guess  they  did,  but  I'm  figurin'  they  took  'em  for 
somebody  else's,  some  gent  who  left  town  the  night  before 
maybe  or  they'd  never  'a'  acted  the  way  they  did — I  tell 
yuh  the  stage  went  by  even.  They  didn't  bat  their  eyes 
at  it.  Yuh  make  me  sick,  Telescope.  I  tell  yuh  I  know 
it  was  me.  I'd  shore  admire  to  find  out  how  they  knowed 
I  was  in  town.  The  judge  knowed  an'  so  did  Jack  Mur- 
gatroyd.  O'  course  the  judge  didn't  tell,  an*  Jack's  an 
other  clam,  an'  besides  he  never  did  train  with  that  Harper 
an'  Keen  outfit  anyway. 

"Here's  a  good  place  for  me  to  leave  yuh,  Telescope. 
You  can  sift  up  that  draw,  swing  east  a  ways,  an'  there  y* 
are  at  the  finest  kind  o'  hill  all  made  to  order  for  lookin' 
over  the  landscape.  C'mon  in  to  Damson  soon's  yuh  can. 
Yuh  might  be  needed.  So  long.  Be  a  good  boy  an'  write 
home  often  an'  don't  forget  to  say  yore  li'l  prayers." 


CHAPTER  XX 
GOVERNMENT  MONEY 

ONE  store,  two  saloons,  a  blacksmith  shop,  a  stage 
station,  four  houses,  a  railroad  station,  and  that 
graceful  structure,  a  large  and  dripping  water- 
tank,  scattered  as  though  by  cheerful  chance  along  the 
flanks  of  a  large  railroad  corral,  made  up  the  village  that 
was  Damson. 

Johnny  stopped  at  the  trough  that  the  considerate  agent 
had  built  beneath  the  water-tank,  allowed  his  horse  and 
himself  a  sparing  drink  apiece,  and  rode  to  the  station. 

He  stood  on  the  grimy  door-sill  and  surveyed  the  in 
terior.  The  agent,  a  young  man  with  tremendously  long 
legs  and  a  neck  to  match,  sat  well  down  in  a  wire-trussed 
chair  and  slept  tunefully.  Johnny  forbore  to  interrupt 
his  snores  and  crossed  to  one  of  the  saloons. 

"Got  any  ice?"  he  demanded  of  a  sweating  bartender. 

The  latter  affected  to  faint.  He  seized  the  bar  with 
both  hands  and  gasped. 

"Ice!  Ice!  I  done  heard  that  name  long,  long  ago 
when  I  was  a  toddlin'  child  wearin'  aperns  an'  things, 
but,  stranger,  I  clean  forgot  what  the  word  means.  Will 
whisky  do?" 

"No,  gimme  a  beer." 

The  beer,  washy-looking,  almost  colourless,  was  slid 
in  front  of  him.  He  picked  up  the  glass,  walked  out  into 
the  shimmering  heat  that  filled  the  road,  and  solemnly 

232 


GOVERNMENT  MONEY  233 

poured  the  tepid  liquid  on  the  ground.  Which  being 
done  he  returned  to  the  round-eyed  bartender. 

"Wanted  to  see  if  she'd  sizzle,"  he  calmly  explained. 
"She  did." 

He  spun  a  coin  on  the  bar  and  retired  to  the  watering- 
trough  and  the  shade  of  the  water-tank,  where  he  spent  a 
lonely  hour.  At  the  end  of  the  hour,  the  agent,  rousing 
and  hungry  for  human  speech,  joined  him  yawnfully. 

"It's  a  wild  life,"  observed  Johnny. 

"Shore  is,"  agreed  the  agent.  "If  hell's  any  hotter'n 
this,  I'd  just  as  soon  stay  alive.  Yessir,  fried  my  bacon 
an'  part  o?  myself  where  I  fell  down  on  the  rails  this 
mornin'.  An'  I  quit  the  S.  P.  an'  come  up  here  'cause 
New  Mexico  was  too  hot!" 

The  agent  laughed  at  the  joke  on  himself  and  bit  off  a 
large  and  generous  chew  from  the  plug  he  kept  in  the  crown 
of  his  cap.  He  seemed  a  guileless  railroad  man.  Johnny 
wondered. 

"Passed  a  whole  troop  o'  cavalry  yesterday,"  he  lied 
easily.  "They  was  driftin'  this  way.  Coin'  to  meet 
the  paymaster." 

Johnny's  gray  eyes,  the  lids  half-closed,  were  watching 
the  agent  with  electric  intentness.  The  latter  stretched 
languidly  and  yawned  anew  and  cavernously 

"'Coin'  to  meet  the  paymaster/  huh?"  he  repeated 
without  interest.  "A  whole  troop.  He  must  be  packin' 
a  million  dollars.  Wish  they  was  more  of  you  an*  me," 
he  added  wistfully.  "I'd  like  a  li'l  game." 

"  So  would  I,  but  seein'  as  we  ain't  twins,  mumblety  peg's 
about  our  limit." 

Knife-flipping  did  not  appeal  to  the  agent,  and  Johnny 
soon  departed  to  make  friends  with  the  citizenry  of  Dam 
son. 


234  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

The  following  morning  Johnny,  having  exchanged  pro 
fitless  conversation  with  every  inhabitant,  was  roosting 
on  the  agent's  spare  chair.  He  wished  to  be  near  the 
agent,  whom  he  did  not  quite  trust.  The  long-legged 
young  man  was  thumbing  waybills,  and  Johnny  was  look 
ing  across  his  bowed  shoulders  through  the  open  door  at 
the  heat  waves  that  danced  before  the  face  of  the  stage 
station. 

And  as  he  drowsily  stared  the  down-stage  rolled  in  and 
creaked  to  a  halt  in  front  of  the  station.  The  passengers, 
two  citizens  and  a  drummer,  alighted.  Johnny  sat  up 
with  a  jerk  and  batted  unbelieving  eyes.  For  the  two 
citizens  were  Bale  Harper  and  Tom  Keen. 

The  drummer  sat  down  on  a  bench  beside  the  door  of  the 
store  and  mopped  a  bald  and  shining  head.  Harper  and 
Keen  went  into  the  nearer  of  the  two  saloons.  It  seemed 
to  Johnny  that  Keen  held  his  right  shoulder  a  trifle  stiffly. 

Johnny  took  thought  a  moment.  Then  he  shoved  his 
hat  forward,  rose  to  his  feet  and  crossed  the  road  to  the 
saloon.  Harper  and  Keen  were  standing  at  the  bar.  They 
did  not  turn  at  his  entrance.  Johnny  walked  quietly  up 
to  Keen  and  slapped  him  heartily  on  the  right  shoulder. 
Keen  uttered  a  grunt  of  pain  and  whirled  like  a  cat,  his 
right  hand  dropping  to  his  holster.  But  his  clutching 
fingers  gripped  not  the  smooth  wood  of  the  butt.  Instead 
they  encountered  the  back  of  Johnny's  out-flung  left  hand. 

"Whatsa  matter?"  demanded  Johnny,  with  a  grin. 
"What  yuh  tryin'  to  pull  a  gun  on  me  for?  Don't  yuh 
know  me?" 

"Well,  whaja  crack  me  on  the  shoulder  for?"  grumbled 
Keen  peevishly. 

"Yuh'll  have  to  excuse  me,"  said  Johnny  with  wide, 
innocent  eyes.  "I  didn't  know  yore  shoulder  was  sore." 


GOVERNMENT  MONEY  235 

"It  ain't,"  Keen  denied  hastily.  "I  don't  like  folks 
to  be  so  abrupt,  that's  all." 

Mr.  Harper  looked  his  wall-eyed  surprise  at  Johnny's 
gaucherie  and  nodded  curtly  in  acknowledgment  of  the 
stray  man's  greeting.  Johnny,  abating  his  waiting  watch 
fulness  not  at  all,  suggested  drinks.  Mr.  Harper  and  Mr. 
Keen  accepted  the  invitation.  They  drank,  employing, 
as  etiquette  required,  their  right  hands,  but  Johnny  used 
his  left.  No  one  appeared  to  observe  the  solecism,  even 
when  Johnny  repeated  it  at  the  next  round.  At  the  third 
round  Johnny,  pleading  a  disordered  stomach,  took  a  cigar. 

Messrs.  Harper  and  Keen,  muttering  something  about 
seeing  Johnny  later,  went  away.  Johnny,  lounging  with 
his  best  air  of  carelessness  at  a  corner  window,  saw  the 
two  enter  the  store.  Later  he  saw  them  leave,  carrying 
no  visible  parcels,  and  go  into  the  other  saloon.  Which 
place,  as  set  forth  on  a  misspelt  sign,  accommodated  trav 
ellers.  Johnny  threw  his  cigar  butt  at  a  transient  dog  and 
shuffled  dispiritedly  across  to  the  store. 

"My  friend  get  his  liniment  all  right?"  he  gloomily 
asked  the  storekeeper. 

" Liniment!"  repeated  that  worthy.  "They  didn't  get 
no  liniment.  They  bought  cartridges  and  carbolic  salve." 

"Salve,"  Johnny  echoed  vacantly.  "Oh,  yeah,  yeah, 
I  thought  it  was  liniment — for  a  hoss.  Gimme  four  bags 
tobacco,  a  box  o'  matches,  papers,  an'  one  box  o'  cartridges, 
forty-five  ninety." 

He  departed,  stuffing  his  purchases  into  various  pockets, 
and  rejoined  the  station  agent.  The  railroad  man  found 
him  a  grievously  unamusing  companion.  He  could  not, 
of  course,  be  aware  that  Johnny  was  speculating  as  to  the 
proper  moment  for  entering  the  saloon  that  accommodated 
travellers. 


236  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

Some  twenty  minutes  later  Johnny  came  alive  with 
startling  suddenness,  slid  to  his  feet,  hitched  up  his  chaps, 
and  walked  out  stiff-legged,  his  elbows  bent.  The  agent 
gazed  after  him  in  amazement. 

"That's  shore  a  funny  jigger,"  he  remarked  to  the  relay. 
"I  wonder  now  is  he  crazy  or  somethin'." 

Johnny  crow-walked  to  the  other  saloon.  As  he  went 
he  sang  the  heartening  and  well-known  ballad,  "Buena 
Vista  Battlefield." 

"I  am  her  only  cherished  child, 

But  tell  her  that  I  died 
Rejoicin'  that  she  taught  me  young 

To  take  my  country's  side." 

At  the  tail  of  the  cheery  lines  he  leaned  against  the  bar, 
and  wagged  a  solemn  forefinger  at  the  bartender. 

"But,  comrade,  there's  one  more — 

She's  gentle  as  a  fawn, 
She  lives  upon  the  slopin'  hill 

That  overlooks  the  lawn." 

He  broke  off  and  gravely  eyed  the  bartender. 

"That's  one  sad  song,"  he  asserted,  grinning  widely. 
"Always  makes  me  feel  like  I  was  gettin'  over  one  good 
drunk.  Gimme  a  see-gar,  a  good  see-gar.  Trot  out  every 
box  yuh  got." 

There  were  ten  boxes  from  which  to  choose,  and  Johnny 
was  frowning  over  the  selection  when  Mr.  Harper  and  Mr. 
Keen  passed  through  on  their  way  to  the  street.  Johnny 
moved  quickly  and  caught  them  at  the  door. 

"  Been  looking  for  you  gents ! "  he  cried  amiably.  "  Have 
a  drink,  just  to  show  they's  no  hard  feelin's." 


GOVERNMENT  MONEY  237 

The  two  men  promptly  turned  about  and  draped  them 
selves  against  the  bar. 

"Name  yore  calf-killer,"  invited  Johnny,  placing  him 
self  beside  Tom  Keen. 

Johnny  sipped  down  a  scant  one  finger — a  disordered 
stomach  must  not  be  abused — and  wrinkled  a  thoughtful 
nose.  There  was  about  Mr.  Keen  a  distinct  and  penetrat 
ing  aroma  of  carbolic  salve.  Johnny  mentally  slapped  a 
swelling  chest. 

When  Messrs.  Harper  and  Keen  had  gone  he  bit  his 
cigar  and  smoked  complacently.  Somehow  the  heat  was 
not  so  oppressive.  It  was  a  fine  large  day,  and  the  path 
way  through  the  wilderness  was  beginning  to  straighten  and 
shed  its  obstacles. 

At  noon  came  Sheriff"  Stahl's  deputy,  Jack  Murgatroyd. 
The  silent,  swarthy  man  put  his  horse  in  the  stage  station 
corral,  left  his  saddle  with  the  station-boss,  and  spent  four 
unsociable  hours  sitting  on  a  crate,  waiting  for  Number 
Six,  the  east-bound  train.  When  the  train  arrived,  fifty 
minutes  late,  the  deputy  boarded  the  smoker. 

The  stamp  of  hoofs  and  the  squeak  and  jingle  of  harness 
followed  the  bell-clangour  of  the  departing  train.  The 
northbound  stage  was  being  hooked  up.  Johnny  strolled 
casually  to  where  Whisky  Jim  stood  leaning  against  a 
wheel,  examining  the  buckskin  popper  of  his  long  bull- 
whip. 

"Did  Bale  an'  Tom  ride  with  yuh  all  the  way  from 
Marysville,  Jim?"  inquired  Johnny,  in  a  tone  that  would 
not  have  carried  twenty  feet. 

"They  did  not,"  replied  the  driver.  "I  picked  Jem  up 
six  mile  south  o'  Bubblin'  Creek." 

"Kind  o'  funny  place  to  be  afoot — this  weather." 

"They  said  their  bosses  was  run  off  in  the  night.     I 


238  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

guess Aw  right,  Bill?  Say,  what'd  I  tell  yuh  about 

a  blind  bridle  on  that  off  leader?  Well,  that's  all  right, 
too.  I'm  the  one  that's  gotta  drive  'em.  Next  time  you 
use  a  open  one.  So  long,  Johnny." 

The  stage  lurched  away  northward  in  a  thick  cloud  of 
dust.  Johnny  glanced  under  his  hat  brim  at  the  porch 
of  the  store.  Harper  and  Keen  were  sitting  on  the  porch, 
their  heels  cocked  up  on  the  low  railing. 

"Now  I  guess,"  said  Johnny  to  himself,  "they  won't 
find  out  from  Whisky  what  I  asked  him — not  yet  awhile." 

The  night  brought  Laguerre  and  the  better  part  of  the 
bushwhackers'  two  horses,  a  tall  and  rawboned  red. 

"What  did  yuh  do  with  the  other  hoss?"  asked  Johnny. 

"Turn  him  loose  un  leave  de  saddle  on  de  heel  aft  air 
I  see  dem  go  away  een  de  stage,"  answered  the  half-breed. 
"Bot'  dem  men  here,  huh?" 

"Shore.  An'  they're  the  ones  all  right.  Now  listen 
hard,  Telescope.  I  gotta  li'l  scheme  I  wanna  work  on 
Bale  an'  Tom  to-morrow.  They  didn't  see  yuh  sift  in,  so 
it'll  be  a  kind  o'  surprise  for  'em.  She's  thisaway " 

Laguerre  listened  delightedly.  Johnny's  little  scheme 
promised  sport  after  his  own  heart. 

In  the  morning  Johnny  contrived  to  eat  breakfast  with 
Harper  and  Keen.  Johnny  was  the  first  to  finish  and  stood 
in  the  doorway  looking  out  upon  a  dusty  world.  He  heard 
the  scrape  of  pushed-out  chairs,  and  raised  his  hand  to  his 
hat  and  held  it  there  a  moment.  As  at  a  signal  Laguerre 
rode  out  from  behind  the  chute  at  the  railroad  corral.  His 
mount  was  the  tall  and  raw-boned  red,  and  he  was  heading 
toward  the  hotel.  Harper  and  Keen  stepped  past  Johnny 
into  the  open  air.  They  halted  with  great  suddenness  and 
he  saw  their  backs  stiffen.  Then  they  started  to  walk 
on. 


GOVERNMENT  MONEY  239 

"Wait  a  shake,  gents,"  he  urged  quietly.  "There's 
a  friend  o'  mine  bringin'  up  a  hoss  for  you  to  look 
at." 

Messrs.  Harper  and  Keen  stopped  and  faced  Johnny. 
Harper,  blessed  with  a  wall-eye,  was  enabled  to  observe 
without  difficulty  both  Johnny  and  the  approaching  rider. 
Tom  Keen  stared  woodenly  at  Johnny  Ramsay.  No  one 
looking  at  the  latter  could  have  surmised  that  he  expected 
to  kill  or  be  killed  within  the  next  few  minutes.  His  atti 
tude  was  easy,  his  voice  a  drawl.  Chance  might  well  have 
hooked  his  thumb  in  his  belt  so  that  the  palm  of  the  hand 
almost  touched  the  butt  of  the  six-shooter. 

"I  heard  yore  bosses  got  run  off  the  other  night," 
Johnny  continued  in  his  pleasant  voice,  "an*  Telescope 
he  found  this  cayuse  walkin*  the  trail  by  his  lonesome  right 
after  his  own  hoss  was  downed  by  road  agents.  Provi 
dential,  I  call  it.  Shore  saved  him  a  long  walk  or  a  wait 
anyway.  But  I  remembered  seein'  Bale  ridin'  a  hoss  like 
this  here  one  once,  so  I  told  Telescope — he  remembered, 
too." 

Harper  and  Keen  made  no  comment.  They  continued 
to  stare.  Johnny  made  a  mental  bet  with  himself  that 
they  would  go  after  their  guns  before  Laguerre  crossed 
the  street.  He  lost.  Tom  Keen  raised  his  arms,  locked 
his  hands  behind  his  ears  and  teetered  back  and  forth  on 
his  toes.  His  eyes  left  Johnny's  face  and  gazed  interest 
edly  upon  Laguerre  and  his  mount.  Bale  Harper  cradled 
his  right  elbow  in  the  palm  of  his  left  hand,  gently  caressed 
his  stubby  chin,  and  critically  focused  first  one  eye  and 
then  the  other  on  the  half-breed. 

Laguerre  checked  his  horse  at  a  distance  of  ten  yards. 
He  smiled  between  the  pony's  ears  at  the  two  men  from 
Paradise  Bend.  It  was  an  open  smile,  and  showed  most 


24o  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

of  the  white  teeth  below  the  stubby  black  moustache.  But 
it  was  not  a  particularly  pleasant  smile. 

"Mornin',"  said  Laguerre,  his  nod  barely  perceptible. 
"Johnny  say  you  lose  you  boss,  Bale.  Dees  heem?" 

"Now,"  thought  Johnny,  the  fingers  of  his  right  hand 
curling  downward  ever  so  slightly. 

He  meant  to  shoot  through  the  bottom  of  his  holster. 
All  was  in  readiness  for  the  climax.  But  Mr.  Harper  did 
not  play  up.  He  still  caressed  his  stubbly  chin.  And 
now  he  shook  his  head. 

"That  ain't  my  boss,"  he  declared  firmly.  "My  boss 
was  a  rangy  red  all  right,  but  his  legs  was  different,  an* 
he  was  wider  between  the  eyes,  an*  his  tail  was  longer  by 
five-six  inches.  I  wish  he  was  my  boss,"  he  added  regret 
fully,  and  moved  ofF,  followed  by  Tom  Keen. 

"Wouldn't  that  make  yuh  sick?"  Johnny  observed, 
when  he  and  Laguerre  were  sitting  on  a  foundation 
beam  beneath  the  tank.  "I  shore  thought  we  had 
'em/' 

"She  ees  sleeck,"  said  the  half-breed,  and  blew  smoke 
through  his  nostrils.  "Guess  eet  was  you  heet  Tom  aftair 
all — only  a  small  leetle  graze.  Me,  I  geet  heem  good  or  not 
a-tall  mabbeso." 

He  smiled  at  his  friend  in  a  way  that  robbed  the  words 
of  their  sting,  and  Johnny  laughed. 

"He  ain't  hit  hard,"  he  admitted.  "All  the  same,  I  was 
watchin'  him  when  he  put  his  hands  behind  his  head  an* 
his  eyelids  wiggled.  Hurt  him  all  right.  He  just  done 
it  for  hell  aimin'  to  show  they  wasn't  no  nicks  on  him. 
Guess  he  must  think  they  ain't  no  smell  to  carbolic  salve. 
Whatsa  matter?" 

Laguerre  lifted  his  lowered  head, 

"Cavalry  comin',"  he  said. 


GOVERNMENT  MONEY  241 

Men  powdered  with  dust,  the  horses  caked  and  sweating, 
the  Fort  Yardley  cavalry  rode  into  Damson  with  a  brave 
jingle  of  curbchains  and  clink  of  slung  carbines.  The  red 
head  rode  beside  the  first  lieutenant.  In  the  rear  the 
corporal  drove  his  mules.  He  looked  unhappy. 

As  the  troop  passed  the  water-tank  the  red-head  glanced 
sidewise  at  Johnny  and  Laguerre. 

"  Howdy,"  he  called  and  smiled  and  flung  up  a  friendly 
hand. 

The  moon-faced  major  saw  them,  too,  but  he  gave  no 
sign  of  recognition.  The  troop  clicked  across  the  rails 
and  made  camp  in  a  grove  of  cottonwoods  a  quarter-mile 
beyond. 

Johnny  and  Laguerre  looked  at  each  other.  Above  their 
heads  the  windmill  that  supplied  water  to  the  tank 
squeaked  solemnly.  At  regular  intervals  it  groaned  and 
rattled,  but  it  never  stopped  while  the  wind  blew.  Happy, 
happy  windmill!  No  cause  for  it  to  worry.  It  had  no 
vexatious  problems.  All  it  had  to  do  was  whirl  and  turn 
and  pump  day  in,  day  out. 

"But  the  thing  can't  travel,"  muttered  Johnny. 

"Huh?"     Laguerre  lifted  inquiring  eyebrows. 

"Djuh  notice  how  the  red-head  didn't  pay  no  attention 
to  Bale  an'  Tom?"  Johnny  said  hastily.  "An'  they  was 
sittin'  over  there  in  plain  sight." 

He  nodded  toward  the  store.  Laguerre  grunted  and 
drew  a  match  along  the  sole  of  his  boot. 

"She  dunno  dem  mabbeso,"  he  observed,  when  his 
second  cigarette  was  burning  well.  "I  t'ink  dat  long  tam, 
me." 

"There  yuh  go,  tryin'  to  start  a  argument,"  complained 
Johnny.  "Ain't  yuh  never  satisfied?  Le's  go  in  an' ride 
the  agent  round  his  collar." 


242  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

So  they  went  in  and  devilled  the  lonely  agent,  but  the 
amusement  palled.  Laguerre  wandered  off  to  make 
friends  with  the  cook  in  the  saloon  where  the  traveller  was 
accommodated,  and  Johnny  trundled  over  to  the  stage 
station  and  helped  the  station-boss  oil  harness  till  the 
dish-pan  clanged  for  supper. 

The  next  day  nothing  happened.  Nor  the  next,  nor 
the  next,  nor  the  next  after  that.  The  cavalrymen  loafed 
in  their  camp,  exercised  their  mounts,  and  got  drunk  on 
occasion.  The  red-head  hung  about  town.  So  did  Har 
per  and  Keen. 

On  the  sixth  day  the  red-head  scraped  acquaintance 
with  Harper  and  Keen.  He  accomplished  this  publicly, 
when  Johnny  and  Laguerre  were  within  a  scant  five  yards. 
The  most  unbiased  of  spectators  would  have  known  by 
the  red-head's  manner  that  he  had  never  till  that  moment 
so  much  as  heard  of  Messrs.  Harper  and  Keen. 

"He's  a  fox,  that  feller,"  said  Johnny,  talking  it  over 
later  with  the  half-breed.  "  'Camp's  my  name,'  says  he. 
'  Barry  Camp,'  says  he,  'an'  where  can  a  feller  pick  up  a 
likely  bunch  o'  bosses?  an'  let's  all  have  a  drink  an*  be 
sociable';  an'  we  did  an'  we  was,  an'  all  the  time  he  spread 
it  on  thick  as  plaster  on  a  wall." 

"We  have  watch  all  t'ree — dey  have  not  talk  togedder 
teel  to-day." 

"An'  yet  I'll  go  yuh  fifty  to  two  bits  he  knowed  all  about 
yore  brush  with  them  two  inside  o'  twenty-four  hours 
after  he  pulled  in.  A  likely  bunch  o'  bosses,  huh.  He 
didn't  say  nothin*  about  no  bosses  up  in  Sunset  County, 
not  that  I  knows  of.  No,  he  was  goin'  to  Seymour  City, 
he  was.  Looks  like  he  was  shore  in  a  hurry  to  get  there, 
don' tit?" 

The  red-head  continued  to  remain  in  Damson.     So  did 


GOVERNMENT  MONEY  243 

Harper  and  Keen.  Four  times  a  day  Laguerre  told  Johnny 
that  they  were  wasting  their  time. 

At  the  end  of  ten  days  Johnny  began  to  feel  that  there 
might  be  a  basis  of  fact  for  Laguerre's  statements,  but  he 
was  too  stubborn  to  admit  it.  There  was  wrangling  and 
language. 

In  the  afternoon  of  the  eleventh  day  the  monotony  was 
broken  by  the  red-head  riding  out  with  the  first  lieutenant. 
Johnny  promptly  got  his  horse  and  trailed  them.  The 
pair,  riding  slowly,  fetched  an  aimless  circle  round  Damson 
and  rode  in  at  dusk. 

The  following  day  the  manoeuvre  was  repeated.  What 
lay  behind  this  strange  passion  for  riding  with  the  military? 
That  evening  he  and  Laguerre,  arguing  the  matter,  almost 
quarrelled. 

On  the  thirteenth  day  the  red-head  left  his  horse  in  the 
corral  and  sat  with  the  first  lieutenant  on  the  porch  of  the 
store.  Johnny,  perched  in  sullen  loneliness  on  an  empty 
whisky  keg  upended  in  the  shade  of  the  station,  did  not 
lift  his  eyes  when  the  stage  from  the  Bend  rolled  in.  He 
was  endeavouring  to  concentrate  on  the  problem  in  hand 
and  making  a  boggy  ford  of  it.  His  thoughts  persisted  in 
reverting  to  Paradise  Bend  and  two  of  the  inhabitants 
thereof. 

He  just  knew,  so  he  did,  that  the  gambler  was  riding 
with  Dorothy  every  single  day.  They  might  even  be 
married  by  this  time.  It  was  a  shame.  A  nice  girl  like 
Dorothy  certainly  deserved  a  better  fate.  In  after  years 
Slay  would  probably  beat  her.  He  looked  like  that  kind 
of  man,  and  Johnny  had  heard  him  speak  very  roughly  to 
his  sister.  Johnny  began  to  get  quite  worked  up  about 
it.  Which  state  of  mind  was  the  most  serious  attack  yet. 

"If  she  ain't  took  him  by  the  time  I  get  back,"  he  told 


244  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

himself,  "I'll  settle  it.  No  two  ways  about  it.  I'll  just 
make  the  break  an'  marry  her  myself.  I've  been  thinkin* 
about  it  long  enough.  Now  I'll  do  it.  Dorothy  has  gotta 
be  saved." 

"What  are  you  muttering  about?"  asked  a  laughing 
voice. 

Johnny  looked  up  dazedly  into  the  amused  face  of  Mrs. 
Wallace.  All  in  dust-coloured  silk,  a  parasol  of  the  same 
shade  and  material  slanting  across  her  shoulder,  she  tilted 
her  beautiful  chin  and  laughed  at  him  frankly. 

"I've  been  watching  you  ever  since  I  stepped  out  of  the 
stage,"  she  said,  shifting  the  broad  black  ribbons  of  a  jet- 
embroidered  reticule  to  the  hollow  of  her  arm,  "and  you've 
done  nothing  but  nod  your  head  and  mutter  away  at  a 
great  rate.  Been  here  long?" 

"Ab'bub-bout  two  weeks,"  stuttered  Johnny,  dragging 
off  his  hat  and  getting  to  his  feet. 

"Those  strayed  Flying  M  horses  are  the  most  ambitious 
animals  I  ever  heard  of,"  she  said,  the  brilliant  smile 
hardening  a  trifle.  "How  many  miles  is  it  from  here  to 
the  Dogsoldier?" 

"Oh,  Scotty's  got  lots  of  other  jobs  besides  bosses  he 
sends  his  men  on,"  parried  Johnny.  "  Yuh'd  be  surprised," 
he  pursued,  warming  to  his  subject,  "at  the  amount  of 
business  Scotty  has.  He's  very  broad-minded  that  way." 

He  put  on  his  hat  and  beamed  upon  her,  his  active  brain 
busily  conjecturing  as  to  the  reason  for  her  presence. 
She  continued  to  smile  till  the  smile  grew  fixed.  Then  it 
faded,  and  her  mouth-corners  drooped  and  she  sighed. 

"I  suppose  the  train's  late  again,"  she  murmured  plain 
tively.  "It  always  is." 

"I'll  find  out.     Which  one?" 

"Number  Six.     I'm  going  to  Piegan  City." 


GOVERNMENT  MONEY  245 

When  he  returned  with  the  glad  tidings  that  Number 
Six,  for  the  first  time  in  many  months,  was  on  time,  Mrs. 
Wallace  was  sitting  on  the  whisky  keg.  Her  glistening 
silk  billowed  about  her — it  was  one  of  those  years  when 
skirts  were  bouffant  to  distraction.  Her  reticule  lay  in  her 
lap.  Her  hands  were  demurely  folded  on  the  handle  of 
her  parasol. 

"On  time?  How  nice,"  said  she,  glancing  at  a  tiny 
watch.  "Then  I've  only  an  hour  to  wait.  You  may  sit 
there  on  the  softest  plank  in  the  flooring  and  amuse  me 
if  you  like.  I'm  bored  stiff.  I  wish  I  could  smoke." 

"Everybody's  lookin'  now," grinned  Johnny, "an'  they'd 
all  stand  on  their  li'l  ears  if  yuh  did." 

He  sat  down  cross-legged  on  the  edge  of  the  platform 
and  fished  out  the  makings. 

"I'm  a-goin'  to  tantalize  yuh,"  he  observed  with  a  smile. 

"You  do,"  she  told  him  simply. 

"Huh?"  He  stared,  thumb  poised  in  the  act  of  snapping 
a  match  alight. 

She  leaned  forward,  chin  supported  on  her  knuckles,  her 
dark  and  brilliant  eyes  holding  his. 

"I  wonder  if  you  know  how  much,"  she  said  softly. 

A  lieutenant  from  the  cavalry  camp,  striding  round  the 
corner  of  the  building  almost  fell  over  the  lady.  He 
snatched  off  his  hat  and,  stammering  apology,  backed  off 
with  hopeful  slowness.  But  the  radiant  vision  on  the 
whisky  keg  ignored  his  existence.  She  continued  to  gaze 
upon  Johnny. 

"I — I  dunn '  began  Johnny  feebly,  and  stopped 

and  ran  a  bewildered  finger  round  the  inside  of  his  collar. 

"I  wish  you'd  be  my  friend,"  she  persisted  wistfully. 

"I  am!"  he  assured  her  hastily,  and  stood  upon  his  feet. 
""Where's  yore  bag,  Mis'  Wallace?  Y'ain't  a-goin'  to 


246  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

Pieganwith  just  that  thing?" — he  indicated  the  reticule — 
"Tell  me  where  it's  at,  an'  I'll  get  if  for  yuh." 

"I  told  Whisky  Jim  to  bring  it  when  he  finished  with  his 
team.  He's  fetching  it  now.  Do  sit  down." 

Johnny  looked  at  the  approaching  stage-driver  and  sat 
down.  Whisky  Jim  reverently  set  down  the  bag  at  the 
lady's  side,  was  sweetly  thanked,  and  returned  whence 
he  came.  Johnny  thought  he'd  better  try  again. 

"I  gotta  go  see  Telescope,"  he  announced  briskly,  and 
arose. 

"Are  you  afraid  of  me?"  she  demanded,  and  caught 
her  lower  lip  between  her  teeth  and  gazed  at  him  out  of 
the  corners  of  her  eyes. 

"Why,  Mis'  Wallace,"  he  exclaimed,  with  what  he  in 
tended  should  pass  for  a  hearty  laugh,  "why,  Mis'  Wal 
lace "  He  gulped  miserably  and  hitched  up  his  chaps. 

"You  may  call  me  Lotta — if  you  like." 

"Why— uh— thanks." 

"You're  welcome." 

There  was  the  barest  flicker  of  mirth  about  her  mouth, 
and  then  she  sighed  quite  deeply,  and  looked  away  from 
him,  and  then  looked  back,  and  said: 

"I  need  a  good,  true  friend." 

Johnny  felt  the  hot  and  cold  blushes  skimming  the  flesh 
of  him.  He  was  horribly  uncomfortable  and  more  than  a 
little  annoyed.  Strange  that  this  should  be  when  in  the 
Bend  he  had  thoroughly  enjoyed  philandering  with  Mrs. 
Wallace.  He  did  not  take  thought  as  to  the  reason.  He 
hadn't  time.  Mrs.  Wallace  was  speaking. 

"I'm  in  great  trouble — Johnny." 

The  dark  eyes  begged,  appealed.  The  red  lips  parted 
in  a  tremulous  smile.  No  action  could  have  bettered  her 
pose. 


GOVERNMENT  MONEY  247 

The  cavalry  lieutenant,  furtively  watching  from  a  corner 
of  the  railroad  corral,  ground  his  teeth. 

"A  lady!"  he  burbled  to  the  nearest  post.  "A  lady! 
Divinity,  by  gad!  hobnobbing  with  a  beastly  cowboy! 
Pearls — pearls  before  punchers!" 

The  officer  was  well  out  of  earshot,  of  course,  and  could 
not  be  expected  to  know  that  Johnny  would  have  delight 
edly  paid  real  money  for  the  privilege  of  changing  places 
with  him. 

"Trouble,'"  repeated  Johnny.  "Trouble.  You  tell 
me  who  the  gent  is  an'  I'll  shore  make  him  hard  to 
find." 

"Oh,  it's  not  that — that  is,  not  exactly.  I — when  are 
you  coming  back  to  the  Bend,  Johnny?" 

"I  dunno — to-morrow — next. week — next  month — can't 
tell." 

"So  long  as  that?"     The  red  mouth  drooped. 

"Well,  yuh  see " 

"Yes,  I  know  you're  awfully  busy,"  she  cut  in,  "but — 
but  I  need  some  one  I  can  trust,  and,  Johnny,  I  think  I  can 
trust  you — I  know  I  can  trust  you.  I  suppose  you  think 
I  ought  not  to  bother  you,"  she  "went  on  forlornly,  her 
graceful  head  bent,  "that  I  should  go  to  my  brother,  but — 
but  brothers  don't  always  understand/' 

He  nodded. 

"Whadda  yuh  want  me  to  do?"  he  asked,  his  eyes  on 
the  little  pulse  throbbing  in  her  smooth  throat. 

"I  can't  tell  you  now,"  she  said.  "There  isn't  time. 
Wait  till  I  come  back." 

"I  may  not  be  here  then." 

"It  doesn't  matter.  I  don't  need  your  help  here.  I 
need  it  in  the  Bend." 

The  tiny  pulse  was  beating  rapidly.     The  smooth  cheeks 


248  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

were  flushed.  There  was  a  pitiful  little  catch  in  her 
voice. 

"Whatever  you  say  goes,"  Johnny  told  her.  "Bui 
how'll  I  know ' 

"Oh,  I'll  tell  you  in  the  Bend.  I'll  tell  you  everything 
when  you  come  to  see  me.  And  you  will  come,  won't  you, 
just  as  soon  as  ever  you  strike  town?" 

"Shore  will." 

"I — I  hope  you  won't  regret  it."  The  trouble  in  the 
dark  eyes  was  very  real. 

"I  guess  I  won't,"  Johnny  said  easily,  thankful  for  a 
sudden  humming  of  the  rails.  "There  she  comes,"  he 
added,  and  a  deep  and  distant  whistle  whooped  its  warning. 

Mrs.  Wallace  stood  up.  From  her  silken  knees  to  the 
ground  the  jet-embroidered  reticule  slid,  and  landed  on 
the  planking  with  a  solid  thump.  The  lady  stooped,  but 
Johnny  was  the  quicker.  He  scooped  up  the  reticule  and 
handed  it  to  her.  It  was  surprisingly  heavy,  that  reticule. 
Johnny  did  not  know  that  powder-puffs  and  cold-cream 
jars  hefted  like  that.  The  thing  weighed  ten  or  twelve 
pounds  at  least.  Perhaps  there  was  a  gun  in  it.  But 
somehow,  when  he  lifted  it,  the  contents  had  not  the  feel  of 
a  six-shooter.  Besides,  a  revolver  only  weighed  a  light 
two  and  a  half  pounds  or  so. 

Mrs.  Wallace  took  the  reticule  and  thanked  him  and 
slipped  the  broad  ribbons  over  her  arm.  Johnny  picked 
up  her  bag.  And  the  bag  was  heavy,  too.  True,  it  was 
a  generous  bag,  broad  and  long  and  high,  but  even  so.  .  . 

With  a  clanging  grind  and  squeal  of  wheels  and  brakes 
the  long  eastbound  pulled  in.  Johnny  saw  Mrs.  Wallace 
into  the  Pullman,  handed  her  bag  to  the  porter  and  hopped 
off  as  the  train  started.  But,  changing  his  mind  on  the 
instant,  he  hopped  on  again.  He  calmly  made  his  swaying 


GOVERNMENT  MONEY  249 

way  through  four  day-coaches  to  the  smoker,  where  he 
hunched  down  in  an  empty  seat  and  watched  the  scenery 
drift  by. 

"She  ain't  a-goin'  to  Piegan  City  for  the  trip,"  he  told 
himself.  "I'd  shore  admire  to  know  what  made  them 
bags  so  heavy." 

It  was  night  when  the  train  clanked  across  the  switches 
of  Piegan  City's  four  sidetracks.  Johnny  dropped  off  the 
smoker  as  the  engine  slid  past  the  section-house,  and  was 
standing  beside  a  pile  of  ties  beyond  the  range  of  the  sta 
tion  lights  when  the  train  stopped. 

He  watched  Mrs.  Wallace  descend  from  the  Pullman 
and  go  into  the  express  office,  followed  by  the  porter  with 
her  bag.  Johnny  sauntered  across  the  tracks  to  the  plat 
form  outside  the  express  office  and  sat  down  on  a  hand- 
truck.  Through  an  open  window  he  could  see  the  express 
office  and  all  that  went  on  therein. 

He  saw  the  bag  lying  on  the  counter.  He  saw  Mrs. 
Wallace  open  first  the  bag  and  then  the  reticule,  take  from 
the  former  six,  and  from  the  latter  two  little  square  pack 
ages,  and  slide  them  across  the  counter  to  the  express 
agent.  The  man  made  out  a  receipt,  handed  it  to  Mrs. 
Wallace,  and  carried  the  eight  packages  to  the  safe,  and 
twirled  the  combination  on  them.  The  lady  picked  up  her 
bag  and  crossed  the  street  to  the  hotel. 

"They's  money  or  dust  in  them  eight  li'l  boxes,"  con 
cluded  Johnny.  "That's  what  made  the  two  bags  so 
heavy.  They's  a  Wells-Fargo  office  in  the  Bend.  From 
the  Bend  here  is  one  long  trip  for  a  lady.  Puzzle — find  the 
joker." 

Johnny  stretched  out  his  legs  and  looked  about  him. 
Beyond  the  hotel,  between  a  drugstore  and  the  Star  Saloon 
a  transparency  proclaimed  the  presence  of  a  restaurant. 


250  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

But  he  wasn't  very  hungry  yet,  not  so  hungry  as  he  would 
be  later.  He  decided  to  wait. 

While  he  waited,  the  telegraph  operator — he  was  like 
wise  the  station  agent — the  yellow  envelope  of  a  telegram 
in  his  hand,  flat-footed  across  to  the  Star  and  pushed 
through  the  swinging  doors.  He  came  out  almost  immedi 
ately  and  returned  to  his  duties.  Johnny  heard  him  shift 
ing  boxes  and  cases  in  the  freight  shed. 

A  man  came  out  of  the  Star  Saloon  and  went  into  the 
hotel.  And  the  man  was  no  stranger.  He  was  that  sharp- 
faced  citizen  of  Paradise  Bend,  Bale  Harper's  brother  Spill. 

"S'funny,"  muttered  Johnny.  "S'funny.  What's  he 
doin'here?" 

He  considered  it  even  funnier  when,  within  five  minutes, 
Spill  emerged  from  the  hotel  doorway  with  another  man, 
the  lean  and  craggy  ex-station-boss,  Skinny  Devinney. 
The  two  parted  in  front  of  the  Star,  Spill  to  enter  the  saloon 
Skinny  to  cross  to  the  station.  After  a  time  Johnny  heard 
him  ask,  above  the  complaining  of  the  skinned  wood,  that 
the  agent  "Send  this  now."  A  box  dropped  with  a  crash, 
and  there  was  silence  in  the  freight  shed.  From  the  office 
came  the  staccato  clicking  of  the  sounder.  Johnny  wished 
he  could  read  Morse. 

"That's  one  odd  number,"  he  said  to  himself.  "Skinny 
sendin'  telegrams." 

Skinny  strolled  from  the  office  and  walked  scuffingly 
back  to  the  Star.  Johnny  continued  to  occupy  his  truck 
and  ruminate  on  the  strangeness  of  life . 

Came  Number  Five  with  a  flaring  Cyclopean  eye  and 
rows  of  lighted  windows  and  a  whifF  of  cooking  food  from 
the  diner's  kitchen  that  made  Johnny  really  hungry. 
When  Number  Five  was  gone  away  westward  Johnny 
betook  himself  to  the  restaurant.  But  before  entering 


GOVERNMENT  MONEY  251 

the  place  he  removed  his  six-shooter  from  his  holster, 
shoved  it  down  inside  the  waistband  of  his  trousers  and 
carefully  pulled  down  his  vest  over  the  protruding  butt. 

For  there  was  a  marshal  in  Piegan  City,  a  curious  person 
with  notions  about  the  masses  not  wearing  firearms  in 
public,  notions  he  wTas  more  than  willing  to  uphold  with 
enthusiasm  and  both  his  guns.  Johnny  was  always  glad 
to  please  a  marshal — when  it  did  not  interfere  with  busi 
ness.  In  this  case  Johnny  could  see  himself  handing  his 
gun  across  the  bar  of  the  nearest  saloon.  With  Spill  and 
Skinny  and  Lord  knew  who-all  infesting  the  landscape, 
he  could  indeed. 

He  made  an  excellent  meal  in  the  restaurant,  then 
went  out  and  stood  on  the  sidewalk,  wondering  what  to  do 
next. 

"I  could  V  gone  back  on  Number  Five/'  he  grumbled. 
"I  might  as  well,  too.  I  don't  guess  that  Lotta  is  goin* 
to  do  anythinV 

At  this  juncture  the  lady  herself  issued  from  the  hotel 
and  walked  along  the  sidewalk  toward  him.  Johnny  did 
not  particularly  care  whether  Skinny  or  Spill  saw  him, 
but  he  decidedly  did  not  wish  to  have  Mrs.  Wallace  know 
that  he  had  followed  her.  He  modestly  withdrew  to  the 
deep  shadows  between  two  buildings.  Mrs.  Wallace 
passed  without  seeing  him  and  entered  the  drugstore. 
Johnny  went  across  to  the  station  and  his  hand-truck. 

Whoo-up!  The  whistle  came  from  the  west.  By  its 
shrillness  he  judged  it  to  be  the  whistle  of  a  freight  engine. 
It  was.  And  the  freight  engine,  one  of  those  speedy 
moguls,  was  pulling  a  short  train  of  twenty  cars  of  sheep 
for  the  Chicago  stock  yards. 

"Woolies,"  sniffed  Johnny,  turning  up  a  scornful  nose 
at  the  blatting  pests. 


252  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

The  mogul  stopping  for  water,  and  the  train  being  a 
short  one,  the  caboose  ground  to  a  standstill  opposite 
where  Johnny  was  sitting.  Before  the  wheels  ceased  to 
turn  a  frock-coated  man  hurried  down  the  caboose  steps 
and  into  the  station.  Johnny  took  a  long  breath  and  ex 
pelled  it  slowly. 

"They'll  all  be  here  soon,"  he  murmured.  "Who's 
next?" 

The  new  arrival  was  the  owner  of  the  Broken  Dollar, 
and  there  was  wrath  in  the  way  he  swung  his  shoulders. 
Johnny  arose  and  edged  toward  the  door  of  the  waiting- 
room.  He  was  barely  in  time  to  hear  the  station-agent 
say,  "I  think  the  lady  went  to  the  hotel,"  when  Slay  strode 
through  the  doorway  and,  without  looking  to  the  right 
or  left,  made  his  purposeful  way  to  the  hotel. 

"He's  shore  all  het  up  over  somethin',"  said  Johnny, 
peering  across  the  platform  of  the  caboose.  "Yessir,  he's 
one  mad  man,  that  feller." 

Slay  came  out  of  the  hotel  quicker  than  he  went  in. 
Coat-tails  flying  he  hurried,  up  the  street  to  the  drugstore. 
He  entered,  emerging  a  few  minutes  later  with  Mrs. 
Wallace.  The  two  walked  off  together  down  the  street. 
Their  progress  was  slow,  for  Mrs.  Wallace  dawdled. 

"Gettin'  madder  an'  madder,"  observed  Johnny.  "See 
him  stamp  his  foot." 

It  was  obvious  that  the  gambler  was  in  a  fine  temper. 
He  took  a  cigar  from  his  pocket,  bit  the  end,  then  promptly 
flung  away  the  cigar,  and  jammed  his  hands  deep  down  in 
his  trousers  pockets. 

Mrs.  Wallace  made  as  if  to  turn  in  at  the  doorway  of 
the  hotel,  but  her  brother  caught  her  by  the  elbow  and 
said  something  that  Johnny  could  not  catch.  The  two 
walked  on  down  the  street.  In  this  direction  lay  the  Y 


GOVERNMENT  MONEY  253 

track  and  the  sidings,  where  stood  strings  of  boxes  and 
gondolas. 

"I  don't  like  the  look  o'  that?"  said  Johnny.  "He's 
mad — an'  bad." 

Johnny  thoughtfully  slid  round  the  tail  of  the  caboose, 
and  walked  down  the  track  toward  the  sidings.  He 
dodged  in  behind  a  box  car  and.  crouching,  looked  between 
the  wheels  toward  Main  Street.  Those  two  figures  dark 
against  the  scattered  lights — there  they  were.  They  were 
still  coming  in  his  direction.  Now  they  had  stopped— 
now  they  were  coming  on.  They  had  stopped  again. 
Their  voices  were  only  a  murmur.  He  wished  they  would 
come  closer. 

They  didn't,  so  he  tiptoed  toward  them,  feeling  his  way 
along  the  edge  of  the  box  car.  The  slag  ballast  was 
crunchy,  but  he  was  careful.  He  negotiated  the  length  of 
three  cars,  two  boxes  and  a  gondola,  and  dared  go  no 
farther.  He  could  hear  quite  well,  anyhow. 

"It  is  mine  to  do  with  as  I  choose."  the  lady  was  saying. 

"We'll  talk  about  that  later,"  averred  Slay.  "You 
were  trying  to  go  away — that's  what  you  were  trying  to 
do." 

"If  I'd  meant  to  do  that,  I  wouldn't  have  been  satisfied 
merely  to  try — I'd  have  done  it.  You  simpleton,  do  you 
suppose  I'd  stop  here  and  wait  for  you  to  catch  me!  Hon 
estly,  at  times  I  believe  you  think  you  possess  all  the  brains 
in  the  family." 

"You  were  going  to  leave  me."  The  man  was  doggedly 
insistent. 

"I  wasn  t."     Impatiently. 

"You  were.     You're  lying." 

A  pause.     Then: 

"That's  the  first  time  you  ever  said  that  to  me." 


254  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

"I'll  say  more  than  that  to  you  if  I  feel  like  it.  You're 
coming  back  with  me  to-morrow." 

"Ami?" 

"You  are." 

"Are  you  holding  my  arm  to  make  sure?  You  hurt. 
Let  go,  or  I'll  slap  you!" 

He  evidently  did  not  let  go,  for  almost  instantly  some 
body's  face  was  slapped — hard.  Followed  then  the  sting 
ing  crack  of  another  smack,  a  choked  scream,  and  the  soft 
thump  of  a  fallen  body.  The  next  moment,  Slay,  bending 
over  Mrs.  Wallace,  saw  a  great  light  and  strange  constella 
tions  as  he  was  knocked  flat  by  a  smashing  blow  on  the 
back  of  the  head.  For  him  the  great  light  and  the  con 
stellations  were  but  momentary.  They  vanished  and 
black  unconsciousness  took  their  place  before  his  forehead 
struck  the  ground. 

Johnny  returned  to  his  waistband  the  gun  with  who?0 
long  barrel  he  had  rapped  the  gambler,  and  stepped  over 
the  sprawling  legs  to  Mrs.  Wallace.  The  lady  was  sitting 
up,  supporting  herself  on  her  arm.  Her  hat  was  over  one 
ear.  Her  black  hair  was  pulled  loose  across  her  white 
forehead.  Slowly  she  lifted  a  hand  and  felt  of  her  cheek. 

"He  struck  me,"  she  whispered.     "He  struck  me." 

Johnny  slipped  his  hands  under  her  armpits. 

"Get  up,"  he  said,  and  pulled  her  to  her  feet. 

She  twisted,  swaying,  in  his  arms,  and  looked  into  his 
face. 

"How — how  did  you  get  here?"  she  demanded  hysteric 
ally,  her  hands  clutching  the  flannel  of  his  sleeves. 

"I  just  come/'  he  told  her,  "an'  a  good  thing,  too." 

She  dropped  on  her  knees  beside  her  brother,  felt  of  his 
heart  and  listened  to  his  laboured  breathing. 

"How  badly  is  he  hurt?"  she  asked. 


GOVERNMENT  MONEY  255 

"He'll  come  to  in  maybe  half  an  hour  or  so,"  answered 
Johnny,  feeling  with  untender  fingers  the  good-sized  bump 
on  Slay's  head.  "I  didn't  hit  him  hard  as  I  could.  He's 
all  right.  Don't  you  worry  about  him.  It's  yoreself  yuh 
gotta  be  thinkin'  of."  Again  he  slipped  his  hands  under 
her  armpits  and  set  her  on  her  feet.  "Now  you  get  a  grip 
on  yore  nerve  an'  go  back  to  the  hotel.  No  use  yore  bein* 
around  when  he  comes  to.  An'  to-morrow  you  hit  the  grit 
out  o'  here — east  for  choice,  the  farther  the  better.  I'll 
fix  it  so's  he  won't  try  to  stop  yuh." 

"Yuh  needn't,"  she  said  and  shook  her  dishevelled  head. 

"Why,  I  thought "  he  began. 

"I  suppose  so.     How  long  were  you  listening?" 

"I  told  yuh  I  just  come.  'Sno  use  talkin'  about  it. 
I'll  fix— 

"I  said  you  needn't,  once.  I'm  returning  to  the  Bend 
to-morrow — with  him." 

"But— 

"I  know.  He  accused  me  of  lying  and  then  struck 
me.  Humiliating,  I  admit.  I  don't  think  he'll  do  either 
again." 

"Yuh'd  better  go,  ma'am — east,  or  south,  or  west.  It 
don't  matter,  so  yuh  go.  It'll  be  healthier,  yuh  hear  me 
tellin'  yuh." 

"Why  will  it  be  healthier — because  of  possible  beat- 
ings?" 

"Not  exactly.  Because Look  here,  you  take  my 

word  an'  skip  out  on  Number  Six  to-morrow." 

She  gave  him  a  long,  steady  look. 

"What  have  I  done?"  she  asked  quietly. 

"I  dunno  nothin'  about  yuh — not  a  thing.  I  don't 
wanta  know.  I've  told  yuh  all  I'm  aimin'  to  tell  yuh. 
If  yo're  a-goin'  back  to  the  Bend  with  him  to-morrow  yuh'd 


256  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

better  go  to  the  hotel  an*  get  some  sleep.  I'd  kind  o* 
square  up  my  hat  an'  push  the  hair  out  o'  my  eyes  first, 
if  I  was  you.  No  use  havin'  them  fellers  in  the  hotel 
think  anythin'." 

"What  are  you  going  to  do?"  she  asked,  her  fingers  busy 
with  her  hair. 

"I'm  a-goin'  to  have  a  li'l  talk  with  him." 

"Is  that  all?" 

"Shore." 

"  Do  you  give  me  your  word  that's  all  you  mean  to  do  ?" 

"That's  a  funny  question  to  ask." 

"Do  you?" 

"If  it'll  do  yuh  any  good  I'll  give  yuh  my  word  it's  all 
I  mean  to  do  now — to-night." 

"Now — to-night!     Why  do  you  specify  to-night?" 

"  Because  in  this  country  yuh  never  know  what'll  happen 
to-morrow.  I  never  like  to  make  promises  more'n  twenty- 
four  hours  ahead.  You  run  along  now  an'  be  happy. 
He  won't  be  asleep  much  longer." 

"I  guess  I'll  stay,"  she  told  him  stubbornly.  "I'll— 
I'll  take  what  comes." 

He  stared  at  her  helplessly.  It  is  a  sufficiently  difficult 
thing  to  instruct  a  man  in  the  proper  treatment  of  a  sister 
even  when  that  sister  is  not  within  sight  and  hearing.  He 
might  in  the  process  be  compelled  to  throw  a  gun  on  the 
gambler.  Why  couldn't  she  be  reasonable  and  go?  He 
scowled  down  at  her  and  wondered  what  to  do. 

From  the  station  then  came  a  faint  shout.  Johnny 
saw  the  operator  dash  out  and  sprint  across  the  tracks, 
yelling  at  every  jump.  He  was  not  yelling  yells  either. 
He  was  saying  something,  and  it  sounded  like: 

"Hold-up!" 

"You  can  stay  with  him  if  yo're  a  mind  to,"  he  told  her 


GOVERNMENT  MONEY  257 

crossly.  "If  yuh  don't  wanna  lemme  talk  to  him,  all 
right,  I  won't.  I'm  goin'  to  see  what's  up  " 

He  ran  toward  the  lights  of  Main  Street  and  pushed 
into  the  Star  Saloon.  There  was  an  excited  crowd  in  the 
Star.  It  centred  about  the  operator,  and  everybody  was 
talking  at  once. 

"Diamond,  huh? — How  much? — Anybody  downed?— 
Fifty  thousand  dollars! — Number  Five — Where's  the  sher 
iff?  How  many  men?  Had  pack-bosses  shore — Betcha 
it's  that  Fort  Creek  County  gang.  Nicked  the  paymaster, 
huh ?  Fifty  thousand  of  Gov'ment  money  is  one  man's- 
sizehaul!" 

Thus  the  Piegan  citizens  ad  lib. 


CHAPTER  XXI 
TELEGRAMS 

THE  engineer  of  Number  Five,  the  flyer  that  had 
passed   through    Piegan    City   just    before   Johnny 
went  to  his  supper,  had  seen  the  board  set  against 
him  at  Diamond,  a  siding  and  demounted  box-car  station 
sixty   miles   west   of   Piegan   City.     Thereupon   he   had 
stopped   his  train    had   been   incontinently   boarded   by 
armed,  masked  men  who  had  uncoupled  the  mail-,  express-, 
and  baggage-cars  from  the  remainderof  thetrain,  and  forced 
him  to  haul  the  three  cars  a  mile  farther  into  a  deep  cut. 
Incidentally  this  business  was  not  accomplished  without 
bloodshed,   the  army   paymaster  being  badly  wounded. 
At  the  cut  there  was  more  trouble.     The  robbers  put  too 
much  dynamite  in  the  charge  they  employed  for  shattering 
the  door  of  the  baggage-car  and  blew  the  baggage-man  to 
pieces  with  his  car  and  many  trunks. 

Then  they  were  more  careful  and  used  a  lighter  charge 
in  attacking  the  express-car.  They  blew  in  the  end  and 
side  doors  simultaneously  and  shot  the  fighting  messenger 
and  one  of  the  paymaster's  guards  to  pieces  and  badly 
wounded  the  other  guard. 

Then  they  had  taken  the  sacks  containing  the  govern 
ment  money  and  three  other  sacks  consigned  to  Sun  River 
and,  after  rooting  awhile  among  the  widely  scattered  bits 
of  baggage,  departed  five  horsemen  and  six  pack-horses, 
toward  the  south. 

258 


TELEGRAMS  259 

Debris  from  the  wrecked  baggage-car  covered  the  line 
so  thickly  that  the  engine  could  not  back  through  it,  so 
the  fireman  ran  all  the  way  to  Diamond.  It  is  to  be  pre 
sumed  he  ran  quickly.  Arriving  with  his  story  he  found 
the  demoralized  train  crew  searching  for  the  telegraph 
operator. 

They  finally  found  him,  gagged,  bound  with  strips  torn 
out  of  his  own  trousers,  lying  in  the  brush  behind  the  sta 
tion.  On  releasing  him  it  was  learned  that  the  wires  had 
been  cut.  Not  only  that,  they  had  been  cut  in  two  places, 
and  the  lengths  between  removed.  But  the  operator 
was  an  ingenious  person.  He  strapped  on  his  climbing 
irons,  cut  a  length  from  a  commercial  wire  and  repaired 
the  break  in  the  railroad  wire.  Such  was  the  story  of  the 
Diamond  hold-up  gleaned  in  disjointed  scraps  by  Johnny 
in  the  Star  Saloon. 

Johnny  was  of  the  opinion  that  it  was  the  work  of  the 
Fort  Creek  County  outfit,  and  he  did  not  believe  that  they 
would  ride  south  very  far.  They  would  double  back 
within  a  few  hours,  if  noc  sooner. 

Johnny  looked  speculatively  at  the  men  in  the  saloon. 
Jack  Murgatroyd,  popping  up  from  nowhere,  was  helping 
the  local  deputy  organize  a  posse.  Spill  Harper  and 
Skinny  Devinney  were  raucously  to  the  fore.  They 
would  ride  in  the  posse,  y'betcha.  It  was  with  a  smooth 
brow  but  an  exceedingly  wrinkled  mind  that  Johnny  nodded 
to  the  two  men.  The  nod  they  accorded  him  was  equally 
brief.  He  thought  he  detected  in  Skinny  Devinney's  eyes 
a  startled  look,  but  he  could  not  be  sure.  Jack  Murga 
troyd  pushed  his  way  to  Johnny's  side. 

"Comin'  with  us,  Johnny?"  he  asked.  "They've  wired 
for  an  engine  an'  box-cars  for  our  bosses.  We'd  ought  to 
be  at  Diamond  in  less'n  two  hours." 


26o  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

"I  ain't  got  a  hoss,"  said  Johnny. 
'Til  get  yuh  one." 

"All  right."     Indifferently. 

Jack  Murgatroyd  went  out  and  up  the  street.  Johnny 
went  out  and  across  the  tracks.  He  wanted^to  be  alone 
and  think.  The  hand-truck  was  his  seat  for  the  next 
twenty  minutes.  Then  he  went  into  the  station.  The 
operator  was  alone.  Piegan  City  was  busy  with  its  posse. 

"Shore  is  a  fright  what  them  hold-ups  are  doin',"  he 
observed,  leaning  against  the  ticket  window. 

The  operator  agreed  profanely. 

"It's  none  o'  my  business,  stranger,"  continued  Johnny, 
"but  would  yuh  mind  tellin'  me  where  that  telegram  went 
yuh  sent  awhile  back — the  one  that  skinny  feller  wrote, 
Skinny  Devinney's  his  name?" 

The  operator  stared. 

"We're  not  allowed "  he  began. 

"I  know  all  that,"  nodded  Johnny,  "but  I  got  one  good 
reason  for  askin'.  Can't  yuh  guess?" 

The  operator  was  fairly  quick-witted. 

"There  wasn't  anything  in  that  telegram,"  he  told 
Johnny.  "It  was  only  about  some  stock,  cattle,  that's 
all." 

"Wasn't  it  sent  to  Diamond?"  persisted  Johnny. 
"Knowed  it,"  he  added  when  the  operator  nodded. 
"Who  got  it?" 

"Say,  who  are  you?" 

"Me,  I'm  just  a  stranger  in  a  strange  land,  but  I'm  a 
heap  interested  in  this  li'l  hold-up.  I  wish  you  was." 

The  operator  hesitated. 

"This  is  against  the  rules,"  he  said  after  a  short  minute. 
"I'd  lose  my  job  if  it  got  out, 'but  I'm  willing  to  take  a 
chance  on  you.  The  telegram  was  addressed  to  Moses 


TELEGRAMS  261 

Peters  at  Diamond,  and  it  read:  'Ship  five  cows  to-day/ 
He  signed  it  'Devinney/'3 

"About  ten  minutes  before  he  sent  it  didn't  a  man 
named  Harper  get  a  telegram,  an*  didn't  that  telegram 
come  from  Damson?" 

"You  know  quite  a  lot." 

"Didn't  it?" 

"Yep,  and  it  said:  'Lost  five  hundred  dollars.  Send 
money  to-day/  It  was  signed  *  Barry  Camp/'5 

Johnny,  pondering  hard  and  rapidly,  went  out  on  the 
platform  and  saw  Slay  and  Mrs.  Wallace  going  into  the 
hotel.  Slay's  walk  was  uncertain.  Johnny  smiled  slightly 
but  his  face  sobered  almost  at  once. 

"Li'l  fool,"  he  said  to  himself,  "why  couldn't  she  be 
sensible  an'  take  a  man's  warnin'.  I  wonder  if  she'll  tell 
him  who  hit  him." 

Probably  she  wouldn't,  but  if  she  did,  Johnny  was  ready, 
very  ready.  He  had  been  ready  a  long  time. 

When  the  wired-for  engine  and  the  box-cars  arrived, 
the  sheriff  of  Piegan  County,  a  long  person  named 
Stevens,  came  with  them.  The  horses  of  the  posse  were 
loaded  aboard  the  two  box-cars  at  the  railroad  chute,  the 
members  climbed  into  the  caboose,  and  the  train  pulled 
out. 

At  two  o'clock  in  the  morning  they  were  unloading  their 
horses  at  Diamond.  The  Pullmans  and  day-coaches  of 
Number  Five  still  stood  before  the  tiny  station.  Discon 
solate  and  peevish  passengers — none  of  them  had  been 
robbed,  but  passengers  are  never  satisfied — roamed  aim 
lessly  about. 

The  wrecking  train  from  the  west  was  not  due  for  three 
hours,  the  operator  told  Johnny,  and  the  wrecked  express- 
car  and  the  mail-car,  blocked  by  the  haggled  remains  of  the 


262  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

baggage-car,  were  still  where  they  were  at  the  time  of  the 
accident. 

Johnny  was  glad  of  these  things.  While  the  posse 
crowded  close  and  listened  to  Sheriff  Stevens  and  Jack 
Murgatroyd  fire  questions  at  the  fagged  operator,  Johnny 
oozed  quietly  to  one  side,  got  his  horse,  and  rode  westward 
along  the  tracks. 

He  had  not  proceeded  three  hundred  yards  when  he  was 
overtaken  by  another  member  of  the  posse,  an  elderly 
citizen  with  a  bushy  white  beard  and  eyes  that  looked 
sleepy  but  were  not. 

"Guess  Fll  traipse  along  with  you,  Mister  Ramsay," 
announced  the  other.  "Bill  Stevens  is  all  right,  but  he 
shore  likes  to  gas.  Last  year  I  lost  forty  head  o*  stock 
'cause  Bill  he  done  more  talkin'  than  ridin'.  Jack  Mur 
gatroyd  looks  good." 

There  was  the  faintest  emphasis  in  the  world  placed  on 
the  word  "looks." 

"Bein'  a  deputy  ain  t  no  cinch,"  defended  Johnny. 

"It  seems  to  be  in  Fort  Creek  County,"  observed  the 
elderly  citizen.  "Leastawise,  whadda  they  do?  Hold 
ups  alia  time." 

"This  one  o'  that  outfit's  jobs?"  queried  Johnny. 

"Whadda  you  think?" 

"I  think  they  headed  south  'cause  they  was  goin*  north 
or  northwest." 

"You'n*  me  seem  to  think  alike.  Guess  maybe  yuh'll 
find  them  five  road  agents  in  Fort  Creek  some'ers — if  yuh 
do  find  'em." 

The  elderly  citizen's  name  was  Harmer.  He  and  a  friend 
owned  a  ranch  two  days'  ride  east  of  Piegan  City.  Just 
luck  his  being  in  town  and  so  in  a  position  to  go  with  the 
posse,  he  had  confided  to  Johnny  during  the  ride  from 


TELEGRAMS  263 

Piegan  City.  Now  he  went  on  to  speak  of  his  friend,  said 
friend  being  mine-crazy,  ever  neglecting  the  ranch  to  go 
on  prospecting  trips. 

"He's  up  there  in  Fort  Creek  County  now,"  said  Harmer 
"scoutin'  round  for  his  mine,  the  mine  that'll  make  us  both 
millionaires.  I'd  rather  make  my  millions  out  o'  cattle. 
But  don't  yuh  get  the  idea  Tom  Lander  ain't  all  right,"  he 
added  loyally.  "It's  just  he's  got  a  notion  about  mines, 
an'  outside  oj  that  he's  a  human  bein'  an'  my  friend,  an* 
nobody's  a-goin'  to  say  anythin'  again'  him  while  I'm 
around." 

Harmer  gazed  truculently  at  Johnny,  and  the  latter 
nodded  sympathetically.  He  understood.  A  man  with 
friends  must  of  necessity  put  up  with  a  great  deal. 

The  two  men  were  halted  fifty  yards  from  the  cars  by 
a  voice,  a  nervous  voice  with  quavers  in  it. 

"You  come  any  closer,"  the  voice  assured  them,  "and 
I'll  shoot." 

" Don't  do  it,"  called  Harmer.     "We  ain't  movin'." 

"Whatsa  matter  with  you?"  demanded  Johnny.  "We 
belong  to  the  posse.  Who  are  yuh,  anyway?" 

But  the  voice  refused  to  be  comforted  no  matter  what 
was  said  and  kept  them  standing  till  the  east  lightened  and 
it  was  day.  Then  Johnny  and  Harmer  saw,  framed  in 
the  end  doorway  of  the  mail-car,  two  white-faced  mail- 
clerks  each  holding  one  of  those  viciously  lethal  weapons 
known  as  riot-guns. 

"When  yo're  quite  satisfied  we  ain't  aimin'  to  rustle  the 
mail,"  cried  Johnny  with  some  heat,  "yuh  might  point 
them  howitzers  of  yores  another  way.  We  come  up  here 
for  evidence,  an'  we  ain't  got  all  the  time  they  is.  Every 
minute  the  road  agents  are  gettin'  farther  away." 

"I  tell  you  one  thing,  gents,"  the  petulant  Harmer  broke 


264  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

in,  "if  yuh  wasn't  workin'  for  Uncle  Sam  I'd  'a'  argued 
with  yuh.  I  don't  care  nothin'  a-tall  about  bein'  held 
up  thisaway.  Yo're  damightyful  ready  with  yore  guns 
now,"  he  added  pointedly. 

"We  didn't  dare  open  the  doors  when  we  were  held  up," 
defended  the  taller  of  the  two  clerks.  "We  barricaded 
'em,  and  we  couldn't  shoot  through  'em,  could  we?" 

"Shore  not,  yuh  might  'a'  got  shot  doin'  it,"  grinned 
Johnny.  "Now,  if  you  two  fellers  don't  mind  I'm  a-goin' 
to  scout  round  a  few." 

"Round  the  cars?"  asked  Harmer. 

"Yep,  an'  I  wish  yuh'd  sort  o'  trail  along  an*  see  what 
I  do.  Might  need  a  witness  some  time." 

Harmer  nodded  and  they  dismounted  and  walked  to 
ward  the  two  cars.  As  they  went  Johnny  scanned  closely 
the  ditches  on  either  hand.  The  two  mail-clerks  watched 
them,  their  expressions  a  grotesque  blend  of  doubt  and 
curiosity.  Neither  Johnny  nor  Harmer  paid  them  the 
slightest  attention. 

When  the  two  reached  the  mail-car  they  stepped  down 
into  the  left-hand  ditch.  In  this  ditch,  about  twenty  feet 
from  the  end  of  the  express-car,  Johnny  found  three  spent 
shells.  Near  the  gaping,  splintered  side-doorway  of  the 
express-car  he  picked  up  five  more.  Scattered  here  and 
there  along  the  ditch,  or  caught  in  the  side  of  the  cut,  he 
found  many  others.  In  all,  when  he  and  Harmer  returned 
to  the  end  of  the  mail-car  and  the  two  clerks,  there  were 
twenty-eight  spent  shells  in  Johnny's  pockets. 

"Where's  the  wounded  guard?"  asked  Johnny. 

"Took  him  west  on  the  engine.     He  needed  a  hospital." 

Johnny  nodded  and  went  back  to  his  horse.  Harmer 
followed  slowly.  He  was  trying  to  build  himself  a  cigar 
ette,  and  that  cut  was  filled  with  breeze. 


TELEGRAMS  265 

Forty  feet  in  advance,  Johnny,  his  eyes  on  the  ground, 
saw  the  corner  of  a  small  package  protruding  beneath  a 
broken  fish-plate.  Johnny  halted  and  knelt  on  one  knee. 
To  the  watching  mail-clerks  it  looked  as  if  Johnny  were 
fastening  a  loosened  spur-strap.  When  Johnny  stood  up 
and  walked  on  the  small  package  w&s  in  the  inner  pocket 
of  his  vest.  When  the  rancher  joined  him  Johnny  was 
sorting  into  two  neat  piles  the  spent  shells  he  had  collected. 
One  pile,  the  larger,  he  put  into  the  pockets  of  his 
trousers. 

"Yuh  like  to  play  solitaire,  don't  yuh?"  observed 
Harmer,  his  old  eyes  quizzical. 

"When  she's  all  yuh  know  yuh  gotta  like  it,"  was  John 
ny's  ambiguous  reply. 

"Here  comes  the  posse,"  said  Harmer,  squinting  east. 

"An'  they'll  be  full  o'  questions.     Yore  Mister  Stev- 

»> 
ens 

"Don't  call  him  mine.     I  never  lost  the  gent." 

"Well,  anyhow,  it's  the  questions.  Maybe  they'll  want 
to  know  did  we  find  any  shells.  Maybe  they'll  want  to 
look  at  them  shells.  Yuh  seen  how  I  divided  'em?" 

"I  got  eyes." 

"Then  they's  plenty  shells  in  that  saddle-pocket  for 
them  to  worry  about.  No  sense  in  lettin'  on  too  much — 
now." 

"I  dunno  what  yo're  drivin'  at,  Mister  Ramsay,"  said 
the  elderly  Mr.  Harmer,  "but  whatever  it  is,  hop  to  it. 
Me,  I'm  a  clam." 

The  posse  arrived.  The  sheriff  was  much  upset,  even 
as  Johnny  had  expected,  for  that  he  could  find  no  spent 
shells.  Johnny  gladdened  his  heart  by  turning  over  the 
twenty-one  shells  in  the  saddle-pocket. 

"All  forty-five  nineties,"  said  Stevens,  "an'  that's  a 


268  HIDDEN  TRALS 

"No,  he's  a  stranger." 

"Know  where  he  does  live?" 

"No.     I  said  he  was  a  stranger." 

"Know  him  again  if  yuh  saw  hirr" 

"  Sure.     He  was  an  old  gent  with  bshy  white  whiskers." 

"Like  Harmer's — I  mean  the  old  ellah  that  rode  with 
the  posse." 

"Nothin'  like  his.  This  jigger's  card  was  cut  square 
across." 

"Square  across!"  repeated  Johnn,  and  dashed  out  of 
the  station. 

He  returned  presently  leading  th  gnome  by  the  arm. 
The  gnome  was  greatly  affrighted  anamceasingly  squealed 
that  he  had  done  nothing. 

"Where  did  yuh  get  them  whiskers ''  demanded  Johnny. 

"I  didn't  steal  'em,  mister!  Homt  I  didn't!  I  found 
'em — found  'em  lyin'  under  a  busl»>ut  there!  I  didn't 
know  they  was  yours." 

Hastily  the  gnome  snatched  off  is  facial  adornment 
and  forced  it  upon  Johnny.  The  la:er  gave  the  passen 
ger's  child  a  dollar. 

"  Don't  be  scared,  sonny.  Yo're  alright,  an'  I  wouldn't 
scare  yuh  for  nothin'.  Lemme  try  '01  on." 

Holding  the  whiskers  in  place  he  zrned  to  the  agent. 

"Might  these  belong  to  Mose?"  h  asked. 

"They're  a  ringer  for  Mose's,"  relied  the  operator. 

""I'll  just  take  'em  with  me,"  saidfohnny,  and  stuffed 
the  false  beard  into  his  hip  pockc.  "See  yuh  later. 
Sonny,  howdja  like  to  earn  anothe  dollar,  huh?  Yuh 
would?  All  right.  Show  me  now  were  yuh  found  yore 
ticklers." 

The  passenger's  child  led  Johnny  :  a  bush  a  hundred 
yards  north  of  the  right  of  way. 


TELEGRAMS  269 

"Here's  where  Found  it,"  said  he.  "It  was  lyin'  right 
there." 

He  pointed  to  le  ground.  Certainly  there  were  the 
marks  of  high  cov^oy  heels  in  the  vicinity  of  the  bush. 
Johnny  cast  aboi  in  various  directions  and  within  an 
hour  found  where  <even  horses  had  stood  for  some  time — 
four  or  five  hours  e  thought. 

Johnny  returne  to  the  box-car.  Again  he  was  forced 
to  arouse  the  operzor.  But  this  time  the  man  was  more 
approachable. 

"I  take  it  Mose  eters  come  here  for  his  telegram,"  said 
Johnny. 

"Naturally.     \\  don't  deliver  from  this  station." 

"Was  Mose  wain'  when  the  telegram  came?" 

"Waitin'I  Wh  say,  stranger,  that  old  feller's  been 
spendin'  all  his  mrnin's  and  evenin's  round  here  for  the 
last  two  weeks,  b  sure  wanted  that  telegram." 

"I  guess  he  mu:  'a',"  said  Johnny  Ramsay.  "What 
for  a  hoss  did  he  rie?" 

"Rode  a  mare  a  black-tailed  dun.  Vicious  devil. 
Kicked  like  a  steei  He  had  to  tie  her  with  a  rope." 

"A  black-tail  du:     A  black-tail  dun  /" 

Here  was  luck,  [ohnny  could  have  whooped  for  joy. 
Instead  he  wrote  roidly  on  a  telegraph  blank.  Two  min 
utes  later  the  opeitor  was  clicking  off  Johnny's  request 
to  the  cavalry  majc  at  Damson  that  he  arrest  Barry  Camp 
at  once  as  an  acces^ry  to  the  hold-up  of  Number  Five. 

"I  dunno  whetKr  'accessory'  means  what  I  think  it 
does,  but  I'm  tain'  a  chance,"  he  told  the  operator. 
"Yuh  might  tack  o  I'm  a-comin'  with  evidence.  Guess 
that  oughta  cinch  i  Hafta  take  a  chance  on  that  Dam 
son  agent,"  he  adcd  to  himself.  "I  dunno,  I  guess  he's 
straight." 


268  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

"No,  he's  a  stranger." 
"Know  where  he  does  live?" 
"No.     I  said  he  was  a  stranger." 
"Know  him  again  if  yuh  saw  him?" 
"  Sure.     He  was  an  old  gent  with  bushy  white  whiskers." 
"Like  Harmer's — I  mean  the  old  fellah  that  rode  with 
the  posse." 

"Nothin'  like  his.     This  jigger's  beard  was  cut  square 


across. 
tt 


Square  across!"  repeated  Johnny,  and  dashed  out  of 
the  station. 

He  returned  presently  leading  the  gnome  by  the  arm. 
The  gnome  was  greatly  affrighted  and  unceasingly  squealed 
that  he  had  done  nothing. 

"Where  did  yuh  get  them  whiskers  ? "  demanded  Johnny. 

"I  didn't  steal  'em,  mister!  Honest  I  didn't!  I  found 
'em — found  'em  lyin'  under  a  bush  out  there!  I  didn't 
know  they  was  yours." 

Hastily  the  gnome  snatched  off  his  facial  adornment 
and  forced  it  upon  Johnny.  The  latter  gave  the  passen 
ger's  child  a  dollar. 

"  Don't  be  scared,  sonny.  Yo're  all  right,  an'  I  wouldn't 
scare  yuh  for  nothin'.  Lemme  try  'em  on." 

Holding  the  whiskers  in  place  he  turned  to  the  agent. 

"Might  these  belong  to  Mose?"  he  asked. 

"They're  a  ringer  for  Mose's,"  replied  the  operator. 

"I'll  just  take  'em  with  me,"  said  Johnny,  and  stuffed 
the  false  beard  into  his  hip  pocket.  "See  yuh  later. 
Sonny,  howdja  like  to  earn  another  dollar,  huh?  Yuh 
would  ?  All  right.  Show  me  now  where  yuh  found  yore 
ticklers." 

The  passenger's  child  led  Johnny  to  a  bush  a  hundre.d 
yards  north  of  the  right  of  way. 


TELEGRAMS  269 

"Here's  where  I  found  it,"  said  he.  "It  was  lyin*  right 
there." 

He  pointed  to  the  ground.  Certainly  there  were  the 
marks  of  high  cowboy  heels  in  the  vicinity  of  the  bush. 
Johnny  cast  about  in  various  directions  and  within  an 
hour  found  where  eleven  horses  had  stood  for  some  time — 
four  or  five  hours  he  thought. 

Johnny  returned  to  the  box-car.  Again  he  was  forced 
to  arouse  the  operator.  But  this  time  the  man  was  more 
approachable. 

"I  take  it  Mose  Peters  come  here  for  his  telegram,"  said 
Johnny. 

"Naturally.     We  don't  deliver  from  this  station." 

"Was  Mose  waitin'  when  the  telegram  came?" 

"Waitin'!  Why,  say,  stranger,  that  old  feller's  been 
spendin'  all  his  mornin's  and  evenin's  round  here  for  the 
last  two  weeks.  He  sure  wanted  that  telegram." 

"I  guess  he  must  'a',"  said  Johnny  Ramsay.  "What 
for  a  boss  did  he  ride?" 

"Rode  a  mare,  a  black-tailed  dun.  Vicious  devil. 
Kicked  like  a  steer.  He  had  to  tie  her  with  a  rope." 

"A  black-tail  dun !     A  black-tail  dun  !" 

Here  was  luck.  Johnny  could  have  whooped  for  joy. 
Instead  he  wrote  rapidly  on  a  telegraph  blank.  Two  min 
utes  later  the  operator  was  clicking  off  Johnny's  request 
to  the  cavalry  major  at  Damson  that  he  arrest  Barry  Camp 
at  once  as  an  accessory  to  the  hold-up  of  Number  Five. 

"I  dunno  whether  'accessory'  means  what  I  think  it 
does,  but  I'm  takin'  a  chance,"  he  told  the  operator. 
"Yuh  might  tack  on  I'm  a-comin'  with  evidence.  Guess 
that  oughta  cinch  it.  Hafta  take  a  chance  on  that  Dam 
son  agent,"  he  added  to  himself.  "I  dunno,  I  guess  he's 
straight." 


270  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

The  operator  had  the  telegram  repeated  and  turned  to 
Johnny  with  awe-struck  eyes. 

"Howdja  find  it  out?"  he  asked. 

"I  was  always  good  at  conundrums,"  bragged  Johnny. 
''Easiest  thing  I  do.  If  they's  an  answer  comes  I'll  be 
back  later." 

He  went  out  and,  to  the  amazement  of  several  passengers 
and  the  Pullman  conductor,  did  a  neat  double-shuffle  in 
the  dust. 

"It's  a  wild  life,  old-timer,"  he  remarked  cheerfully  to  a 
fat  passenger.  "You  hadn't  ought  to  eat  so  much — not 
in  this  weather." 

The  fat  passenger  shrank  back  in  alarm,  and  Johnny 
vaulted  into  his  saddle  without  touching  the  stirrup. 
He  jumped  the  pony  into  full  gallop  on  the  instant,  leaving 
the  fat  passenger  to  make  oration  as  to  what  he  would 
have  done  had  the  ruffling  cowboy  persisted  in  his  im 
pertinence. 

Johnny  rode  to  the  spot  where  the  eleven  horses  had 
stood.  From  here  he  worl  .ed  back  over  the  way  they  had 
come.  It  was  difficult,  because  in  stretches  there  was  a 
deal  of  short  grass.  He  wished  for  Laguerre. 

Early  in  the  afternoon  he  came  upon  his  goal,  the  camp 
of  the  five  men.  It  was  set  far  back  at  the  very  end  of  a 
blind  canon  having  an  abundance  of  wood,  grass,  and  water. 

"Nothin'  mean  about  them,"  said  Johnny.  "All  the 
pleasures  of  home.  An'  it's  shore  a  heap  out  of  the  way. 
Wiser  than  owls,  ain't  they?  I  guess  yes." 

He  laughed  silently,  turned  his  horse  on  a  nickel  and 
headed  for  Diamond. 

"Quite  a  trail,"  he  said  aloud.  "Camp  to  Spill,  Spill 
to  Skinny,  an'  Skinny  to  Mose  Peters  an'  his  black-tail 
dun — an'  Harry  Slay,  if  I  can  prove  it  on  him." 


TELEGRAMS  271 

Here  Johnny  experienced  a  severe  twinge  of  com 
punction  for  that  corralling  would  doubtless  involve  the 
gambler's  sister  He  did  not  wish  any  harm  to  come 
to  Mrs.  Wallace.  He  did  not  love  her  in  the  least,  but 
she  was  a  woman  and  remarkably  pretty  and  deserved 
better  things  of  life  than  arrest  and  imprisonment. 

"She's  in  it the  luck!  She's  bound  to  be."  Johnny 

pettishly  whacked  his  saddle-horn  with  the  butt  of  his  quirt 
and  called  Slay  every  evil  name  he  could  think  of  for 
dragging  his  sister  into  the  mess.  "She'd  never  'a'  done 
nothin'  only  for  him,"  he  gloomily  told  his  horse.  "An' 
of  course,  bein'  a  woman,  she  has  to  stick  by  darlin* 
brother.  Maybe  after  she's  had  a  night  to  think  it  over," 
he  added,  brightening  slightly,  "she'll  do  what  I  told 
her." 

There  was  no  long  line  of  passenger-cars  at  Diamond 
when  Johnny  rode  in.  The  wrecking  train  had  come  and 
gone.  Far  in  the  east  sounded  the  shrill  whistle  of  a  west 
bound  freight.  He  dismounted  and  stripped  the  saddle 
and  bridle  from  his  horse  and  turned  him  loose. 

"  Kind  o'  look  after  this  truck,"  he  said  to  the  operator, 
dropping  the  saddlery  in  a  corner.  "I've  hobbled  the 
horse.  Guess  he  won't  stray  far.  If  he  muddies  up  yore 
spring  jerk  rocks  at  him.  When  the  posse  sifts  in  tell  the 
sheriff  I  had  to  go  home." 

He  didn't  tell  the  operator  that  he  expected  to  return 
soon.  No  sense  in  telling  these  railroad  employees  too 
much.  With  a  fairly  light  heart  he  boarded  the  caboose 
of  the  westbound  freight. 

He  swung  off  the  steps  at  Damson  in  the  twilight. 
Laguerre  met  him. 

"Were  yuh  been?"  demanded  the  half-breed.  "I 
t'ink  yuh  was  los'  mabbeso.  W'y  yuh  go  'way?" 


272  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

"Tell  yuh  later,  Telescope.  Did  the  major  arrest  Camp 
all  right?" 

"Arrest  heem?  Naw,  she  deed  not.  Camp  was  ride 
'way  north  wit'  Bale  un  Tom  dees  aftairnoon.  W'y  she 
arrest  heem?  Wat  you  find  out.  Wat  about  de  hold-up 
at  Diamon'?" 

"Plenty.     Just  now  I  wanna  see  that  agent." 

Johnny  descended  upon  the  station-agent  and  asked 
questions.  Yes,  the  telegram  for  the  major  had  been  re 
ceived  correctly,  and  one  of  the  soldiers  had  taken  it  over 
to  the  camp.  Johnny,  not  yet  wholly  reassured  as  to  the 
agent's  honesty,  fled  to  the  saloon  for  his  saddle  and  bridle. 

"Damfool  boy,"  muttered  Laguerre,  staring  after  him. 
"All  tarn  hurry,  hurry.  Wondair  w'at  she  know  about 
dat  hold-up.  She  know  all  right." 

He  slowly  went  across  to  the  corral  where  Johnny  was 
now  cinching  up.  "See  yuh  later,"  was  all  Johnny  would 
say,  and  he  dashed  off. 

Three  minutes  later  the  major,  watching  his  men  break 
camp,  was  shocked  by  the  tumultuous  arrival  of  a  horse 
man.  He  did  not  like  this  wild-riding  person.  It  was  the 
man  who  had  made  game  of  him,  the  stray  man  Ramsay. 
The  officer's  eyes  glittered  coldly. 

"What  do  you  mean  by  riding  into  a  camp  in  this  fash 
ion?"  he  barked  in  his  parade  voice.  "What  do  yuh  mean 
by  it?  Here,  corporal " 

"Throw  me  out  if  yuh  want,"  said  Johnny,  "but  first 
tell  me  if  yuh  got  my  telegram? — Yuh,  did,  huh.  Then 
why  didn't  yuh  arrest  Barry  Camp?  What  did  yuh  let 
him  get  away  for?" 

"I'm  not  taking  orders  from  a  civilian,"  snapped  the 
major. 

"Oh,  yo're  not,  huh?     Well,  lemme  tell  yuh  one  o'  the 


TELEGRAMS  273 

mainsprings  o'  this  hold-up  bunch  has  sloped  because  yuh 
wouldn't  take  orders  from  a  civilian.  I  got  the  evidence, 
an*  it  leads  straight  back  to  this  man  Camp." 

''What  do  you  mean?" 

"What  I  say." 

The  major  hesitated,  then  he  motioned  Johnny  to  dis 
mount. 

"Come  into  my  tent,"  he  snid,  and  Johnny  followed. 

"Tell  me — "  began  the  major,  but  Johnny  was  already 
doing  it. 

He  told  the  major  of  the  telegrams  and  Moses  Peters 
and  his  false  whiskers,  but  he  said  nothing  of  the  dun  horse. 

"Look  at  them  two  telegrams,"  Johnny  almost  wailed. 
"  'Five'  an'  'to-day'  in  both  of  'em.  What  else  does  it  mean 
but  'the  paymaster's  comin'  on  Number  Five  to-day'? 
It's  as  plain  as  a  sergeant's  stripes." 

"But  I  don't  see— 

"  I'll  begin  at  the  beginning  so  yuh'll  see  how  I've  worked 
it  out.  This  Camp  man  knowed  there  was  goin'  to  be  a 
big  pay-day  at  Fort  Yardley,  but  he  dunno  when.  All 
right,  he  goes  an'  warns  the  colonel  the  road-agents  are 
plannin'  to  bushwhack  the  paymaster  on  the  trail.  The 
colonel  called  out  a  whole  troop  for  a  escort  an'  sent  'em 
to  the  railroad.  Instead  o'  takin'  along  the  ambulance 
like  yuh  always  do  for  the  paymaster,  yuh  hire  a  buck- 
board  in  the  Bend,  so's  people  won't  guess  nothin'.  It 
works  fine  and  dandy — not.  It  just  shows  the  paymaster 
is  comin'  right  soon. 

"By  hangin'  round  an'  pickin'  up  a  word  here  an'  there 
— I  dunno  how  much,  but  you  can  be  shore  he  got  it  out 
of  you  an'  yore  two  lieutenants  some  way — the  red-head 
found  out  what  train  an'  day  the  paymaster  was  due  on. 
The  rest  is  easy.  All  he  has  to  do  is  send  a  fake  telegram, 


274  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

an'  who'd  be  the  wiser  ?  I'm  tellin'  yuh,  Major,  if  I  hadn't 
just  happened  to  be  in  Piegan  City,  an'  seen  certain  things 
to  make  me  suspicious  an'  ask  questions,  no  one  would  be 
the  wiser.  An'  you  let  him  go!  You  had  him  roped  an' 
you  let  him  go !  Honest,  Major,  if  she  wasn't  so  serious  I'd 
laugh.  I  shore  would." 

The  moon-faced  major,  who  should  have  known  enough 
to  keep  his  trouble  to  himself,  lifted  up  his  voice  and  swore. 
He  saw  the  whole  affair  with  an  appalling  clarity  of  vision, 
and  it  hurt  him  to  the  depths  of  his  being.  He  was  like 
unto  the  dog  upon  whose  tail  the  heavy  foot  has  trod.  He 
wished  to  talk  of  his  anguish,  and  he  did. 

He  called  in  his  lieutenants  and  talked  to  them.  Need 
less  to  say  he  blamed  them  severely  for  their  loose  tongues. 
The  first  lieutenant  was  not  one  to  take  a  lacing  lying 
down,  and  he  talked  back.  It  was  a  painful  scene. 
Johnny  departed  when  the  major  began  to  threaten  the 
first  lieutenant  with  arrest. 


CHAPTER  XXII 
WHAT  DOROTHY  SAID 

IWEEL  not!     I  tell  yuh,  Johnny,  I  weel  not  go  to 
Marysville  for  de  warrant  un  let  yuh  go  after  Speel  un 
Skeeny.     I  go  wit'  yuh."     Laguerre  scowled  across 
the  room  at  his  friend,  who  was  sitting  in  the  middle  of  his 
cot  hugging  his  knees." 

"Have  it  yore  own  way,"  said  Johnny.  "I've  seen 
mules  now  an*  then,  but  of  course  we  wasn't  talkin'  of 
mules,  was  we?  Lordy,  listen  to  her  rain!  We  could  be 
trailin'  that  red-head  jigger  now  if  it  wasn't  for  the  rain. 
I  dunno  what  luck  is  any  more.  Sling  us  a  match,  will 
yuh,  Telescope?" 

"Dere  y'are.  Nevair  you  min'  about  Meestair  Camp. 
She  weel  come  latair.  Jus'  now  eet  ees  Speel  un  Skeeny — 
un  jus'  now  I  wan'  for  sleep.  Dat  train  she  pull  out  een 
t'ree  hour." 

The  rain  had  stopped  when  the  two  got  off  the  train  at 
Diamond.  Johnny's  Piegan  City  mount  was  busily  crop 
ping  grass  in  the  neighbourhood  of  the  spring.  Johnny 
caught  him  up  and  rode  to  a  small  ranch  five  miles  west 
to  hire  a  horse  for  Laguerre.  He  was  back  in  an  hour  and 
a  half  with  the  horse  and  a  supply  of  food. 

In  the  first  of  the  morning  light  they  were  riding  south 
ward  on  the  trail  of  Stevens's  posse. 

"Dead  or  alive,  the  notice  said."  Johnny's  mouth  was 
a  straight  line. 

275 


276  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

"Two  t'ousand  dollar  apiece,"  chimed  in  Laguerre,  his 
black  eyes  bright  with  anticipation. 

In  all  justice  it  must  be  said  the  the  half-breed  was  think 
ing  not  so  much  of  the  money  as  he  was  of  the  lively  ex 
citement  he  was  riding  into.  Harper  and  Skinny  would 
certainly  put  up  some  kind  of  a  fight.  Laguerre  had  no 
fear  of  the  outcome.  Neither  had  Johnny.  There  could 
be  no  mercy  for  men  aiding  and  abetting  such  a  hold-up 
as  the  one  near  Diamond. 

Four  days  later  they  found  the  posse  combing  the  breaks 
of  the  Lost  Soldiers,  but  they  did  not  find  Spill  Harper 
and  Skinny  Devinney.  These  two,  said  Harmer,  were 
scouting  to  the  eastward.  They  had  left  the  main  party 
on  the  second  day.  Harmer  did  not  ask  the  reason  for 
Johnny's  solicitude  respecting  the  two  men  from  the  Bend, 
but  his  old  eyes  were  shrewdly  speculative. 

Nothing  was  said  to  Sheriff  Stevens  or  the  others  of  the 
turpitude  of  Spill  and  Skinny.  It  would  be  common 
property  sufficiently  soon.  Besides,  the  size  of  a  reward 
is  not  increased  by  division. 

Sheriff  Stevens  and  all  of  the  posse  save  Jack  Murga- 
troyd  were  about  ready  to  go  home  when  Johnny  and  La 
guerre  came  upon  them.  Most  of  them  had  little  busi 
nesses  of  their  own  that  would  suffer  should  they  remain 
away  for  any  length  of  time.  It  was  the  Government's 
money  anyway.  They  had  not  discovered  a  single  clue 
to  the  identity  of  the  robbers,  and  they  had  long  since 
lost  the  trail.  Indeed,  they  lost  it  twenty  miles  south  of 
the  railroad.  Now,  after  the  rain,  further  searching  was 
hopeless.  It  is  ridiculously  easy,  when  the  first  enthusiasm 
has  worn  off,  to  find  excuses  for  not  doing  a  certain  thing. 

The  posse  turned  back,  and  Murgatroyd  left  them  to  ride 
his  own  line.  He  had  voiced  his  belief  that  the  road  agents 


WHAT  DOROTHY  SAID  277 

had  swung  off  toward  the  country  south  of  Fort  Seymour, 
where  there  was  a  wild  jumble  of  perpendicular  scenery. 
According  to  Murgatroyd  it  was  a  good  place  to  hide  in. 

Reaching  Diamond,  Stevens  and  his  men  went  east  on 
a  local  freight.  Johnny  and  Laguerre,  waiting  for  Number 
Three,  entered  the  saloon  that  catered  to  travellers  and 
found  Harmer  leaning  against  the  bar. 

"Yore  train's  gone,"  said  Johnny. 

Harmer  shook  his  white  head. 

"Not  mine,"  he  smiled  placidly.  "I  ain't  lost  any 
trains.  Sent  my  hoss  back  on  it  though.  Sort  o'  thought 
I'd  prospect  'round  here  a  spell.  Lively  li'l  mee-tropolis, 
this  town.  Have  a  drink." 

Later,  crossing  the  road,  Harmer  turned  his  quizzical 
eyes  on  Johnny. 

"I'm  figurin'  on  goin'  west,"  he  said  slowly.  "I  dunno 
as  I  think  much  of  that  country  south  o'  Seymour.  Livin' 
on  a  ranch  is  so  kind  of  doleful,  an'  here's  a  chance  for 
action.  Besides,  the  railroad  chunkers  in  them  wrecked 
cars  never  had  a  chance.  A  gent  ought  to  have  an  even 
break  for  his  alley.  An'  them  hold-ups  didn't  give  no  even 
break.  Djuh  know  they  found  a  piece  o'  that  baggage 
man's  heels,  an'  not  another  smidgin  'of  him?  I  didn't 
like  that."  His  eye-corners  puckered  and  the  steady 
hands  stroked  the  long  white  beard.  "Maybe  I'm  takin* 
too  much  for  granted,  gents.  Maybe — maybe  yore  in 
terest  in  this  case  is  ended." 

"Not  a  li'l  bit,"  cried  Johnny  heartily.  "We're  shore 
a  heap  interested." 

"Y'  bet  yuh,  Meestair  Harmair,"  was  the  half-breed's 
contribution. 

"I'm  glad,"  said  Harmer  simply.  "I  shore  do  enjoy 
playin'  out  any  hand  I  pick  up." 


278  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

"An'  that's  one  right  good  rule,"  said  Johnny  Ramsay. 

So  Mr.  Harmer  went  with  them  to  Damson.  There 
he  said  he  guessed  he'd  get  him  a  horse  and  meander 
around  a  spell.  Johnny  suggested  that  he  ride  north  with 
them.  He  was  beginning  to  have  doubts  concerning  Mr. 
Harmer.  There  was  something  secretive  about  the  old 
fellow.  Perhaps —  Johnny  watched  Mr.  Harmer  very 
closely. 

They  pushed  their  horses  to  the  limit  on  the  northward 
trail.  Twice  between  Damson  and  Marysville  they 
passed  small  parties  riding  south  to  join  a  Federally  hired 
posse  hunting  the  road  agents.  From  one  of  these  they 
learned  that  word  had  been  sent  to  Fort  Yardley  and  Fort 
Seymour  and  that  four  more  troops  of  cavalry  would  be 
out  within  a  week. 

"Which  them  hold-ups  ain't  got  a  chance,"  their  in 
formant  flung  back  over  his  shoulder  as  he  rode  on  after 
his  outfit. 

"No,"  said  Johnny  gently,  "I  guess  not." 

Harmer  chuckled,  and  accurately  spat  tobacco  juice  on 
a  small  rock. 

"Them  fellers  must  be  a-laughin'  themselves  sick  about 
now,"  he  observed.  "  Fifty  thousand  dollars  an*  whatever 
else  was  in  them  ordinary  express  sacks.  My  Gawd,  it's 
so  easy  to  fool  a  sheriff  she's  a  wonder  they's  an  honest 
man  left  in  the  world." 

The  old  cynic  chuckled  again.  The  perturbed  Johnny 
watched  him  like  a  cat. 

Judge  Allison  was  taking  the  air  in  the  shade  of  his  front 
porch  when  the  three  men  rode  into  Marysville.  At  sight 
of  them  he  uttered  a  joyful  cry  and  ran  out  into  the  street. 

"Bat  Harmer!"  he  bawled.     "V  old  scoundrel!" 

To  this  remarkable  greeting  Harmer  made  response  by 


WHAT  DOROTHY  SAID  279 

jumping  from  his  horse  with  a  whoop  and  beating  the 
judge  upon  his  broadcloth  shoulders. 

"I  was  just  a-comin'  to  see  yuh,  Bill,"  he  said.  "I 
thought  I'd  better.  My  friends  here  are  suspicious  of  me. 
They  think  I'm  somethin'  I  ain't.  Tell  'em  I  am." 

"Why,  Johnny,  how  could  yuh?"  reproved  the  judge. 
"And  Telescope  Laguerre  too,  who  should  know  better." 

"I  dunno  what  yo're  takin'  about,"  Johnny  disclaimed, 
his  face  reddening  smartly,  while  Laguerre  grinned. 

"  Don't  blame  yuh,"  smiled  Harmer.  "  I  did  kind  o'  horn 
in  on  yore  privacy  some.  But  I  wanted  to  see  this  deal 
through,  an'  I  ain't  joyful  none  about  playin'  a  lone  hand. 
I  like  folks  to  talk  to.  That's  the  kind  of  a  hairpin  I  am." 

Like  Harmer?  A  man  couldn't  help  it.  They  all  went 
up  on  the  judge's  front  porch  where  there  was  good  cheer  in 
a  bottle  and  good  feeling  in  the  air. 

There  was  much  to  tell  the  judge.  He  made  no  bones 
about  issuing  warrants  for  Barry  Camp,  Spill  Harper,  and 
Skinny  Devinney. 

"I'll  issue  them  at  once,"  said  he.  "Evidence  is  more 
than  enough.  I  should  say  so — No,  I  haven't  seen  any 
of  them.  They  wouldn't  ride  through  here.  Not  now. 
I'm  sorry  you  weren't  closer  to  Bale  and  Tom.  You  see, 
you  can't  actually  identify  them  as  the  men  who  bush 
whacked  you." 

"  If  I'd  been  closer  to  'em  they  wouldn't  need  warrants," 
Johnny  said  naively.  "But  it  don't  matter.  They'll 
come  alive  again  some'ers." 

"Will  they  stay  alive?"  queried  the  judge. 

"Well,"  said  Johnny,  "yuh  know  yoreself  she's  a  hard 
world.  Another  thing,  Judge:  I  told  that  Piegan  City 
operator  an'  the  one  at  Diamond  not  to  talk,  but  o'  course 
they  will,  an'  what  we  know  everybody  else  will  know  soon 


280  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

an'  sudden.  But  they's  no  sense  in  showin'  our  hand  till 
we  gotta.  Will  yuh  keep  them  warrants  a  while  till — till 
we  bring  in  the  beef?" 

"Good  idea,"  nodded  Judge  Allison.  "I  will." 
The  three  rode  on  to  Farewell.  There  were  few  men 
in  sight.  Sheriff  Rule,  it  seemed,  had  organized  the  major 
ity  of  the  citizens  into  a  posse  and  was  riding  the  country 
between  Longhorn  Mountain  and  Cutter.  For  Chance 
Blaisdell  had  brought  Sheriff  Rule  a  message  from  Sheriff 
Stahl  to  the  effect  that  the  escaped  killer,  Hen  Riley,  had 
doubled  south. 

"Guess  it's  the  hoss  more'n  Hen  that's  botherin'  the 
sheriff,"  observed  Johnny.  "Shore  thinks  a  heap  o'  that 
cayuse,  Bill  Stahl  does." 

They  forsook  the  trail  at  Farewell  and  rode  northeast, 
their  objective  the  Harper  ranch-house  on  Dry  Creek. 
They  rode  the  canons  and  the  draws,  and  reconnoitred 
the  place  by  night  from  the  direction  of  the  Medicine 
Mountains. 

"No  light  nowhere,"  remarked  Harmer. 
"Guess  we  might  as  well  wait  for  daylight,"  said  Johnny 
Ramsay. 

They  waited — lying  down-wind  among  the  pines  at 
the  back  of  the  ranch.  This  that  the  small  dog,  Biscuit, 
might  not  scent  their  presence.  At  the  first  light  they  ap 
proached  the  house  by  way  of  the  corral.  They  did  not 
burst  in  the  back  door.  They  didn't  have  to.  The  latch- 
string  was  out.  Johnny  pulled  it,  and  pushed  the  door 
open.  There  were  no  indignant  yaps.  No  dog  was  in  the 
house.  Nor  was  any  human  being.  Nor  were  there  any 
firearms.  Which  last  pleased  Johnny. 

It  would  have  disappointed  him  beyond  measure  to  have 
found  in  the  house  the  forty  sixty-five  with  which  he  had 


WHAT  DOROTHY  SAID  281 

shot  against  Spill  Harper  and  Skinny  Devinney.  Leaving 
the  house,  Johnny  looked  under  the  bench  beside  the 
kitchen  door.  Half  hidden  by  the  leg  of  the  bench,  a  spent 
shell  lay  in  the  pale  grass.  Under  the  bulge  of  the  founda 
tion  log  on  the  other  side  of  the  doorway  was  another 
spent  shell.  Johnny  called  Harmer' s  attention  to  these 
two  cartridge  cases.  He  did  not  touch  them  himself. 

"Would  yuh  mind  pickin'  up  them  spent  shells,  an' 
puttin'  'em  in  yore  pocket?"  he  added.  "I'd  do  it  myself 
only  I'd  rather  have  a  third  party  do  it.  It — it  might  look 
better  sometime.  Take  a  good  look  at  'em  while  yo're  at 
it." 

Harmer  picked  up  the  shells  and  turned  them  round  and 
round  in  his  palm.  He  dropped  the  shells  into  a  pocket 
of  his  coat  and  looked  at  Johnny. 

"I  guess  maybe  yo're  figurin'  on  them  empties  comin' 
in  handy  later,"  he  remarked. 

"I  guess  maybe,"  said  Johnny  Ramsay,  laying  his  rifle 
in  the  hollow  of  his  arm  and  fishing  out  the  makings. 

As  they  were  constructing  their  cigarettes  there  galloped 
from  the  woods  the  dog  Biscuit  with  rabbit-fur  on  his 
whiskers  and  assaulted  their  ankles.  They  fended  him 
off  with  all  gentleness,  for  he  was  a  small  animal,  but  he 
followed  them  with  savage  snarls  while  they  examined 
the  ground  roundabout. 

"Nobody  been  here  for  t'ree  week,"  declared  Laguerre, 
when  he  had  looked  at  the  sign  in  the  corral.  "Guess  we 

go/' 

"Might  as  well  be  the  Bend,"  said  Johnny.  "Tom 
Keen  an'  Bale  have  friends  there.  It's  just  possible " 

He  did  not  finish  the  sentence.  Harmer  smiled.  He 
thoroughly  approved  of  Johnny  Ramsay. 

Three  tired  men  on  three  tired  horses,  they  rode  the 


282  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

length  of  Paradise  Bend  Main  Street  and  unsaddled  at  the 
hotel  corral. 

"Le's  go  see  Racey,"  suggested  Johnny  when  they  had 
flung  down  their  saddles  and  bridles  in  a  corner  of  the  hotel 
barroom. 

But  Racey  had  seen  them  ride  in,  and  he  was  upon 
them  before  they  reached  the  street.  Racey  reported, 
between  swallows,  that  the  red-head,  Bale  Harper,  and 
Tom  Keen  had  not  returned  to  Paradise  Bend. 

"Slay  in  town?"  asked  Johnny  in  a  whisper. 

"Shore  is.  Swapped  drinks  with  him  this  mormV — 
Huh?  Mrs.  Wallace?  Yuh  bet  yuh.  Run  the  wheel 
last  night.  What  yuh  wanna  know  about  her  for?  I 
thought " 

"Nemmine  what  yuh  thought,"  cautioned  Johnny. 
"Not  so  loud." 

They  were  down  at  the  end  of  the  bar,  far  removed  from 
the  other  customers,  but  Racey's  voice  was  prone  to  rise, 
and  Johnny  was  a  fearful  soul. 

"Get  off  my  toe!"  cried  Racey.  "Stand  on  yore  own 
hoof,  yuh  splay-footed  mule!  What  yuh  so  partic'lar 
for  anyhow  about — yore  liquor?"  he  amended  wisely, 
taking  note  of  the  peculiar  gleam  that  had  suddenly  crept 
into  Johnny  eyes. 

"Didja  say  Slay  was  in  the  Broken  Dollar?"  asked 
Johnny. 

"I  didn't,  but  he  is.     Hey!     Where  yuh  goin'?" 

But  Johnny  was  already  gone.  Racey  turned  his  head. 
Laguerre,  Harmer,  and  Soapy  Ragsdale  were  listening  to  a 
story  the  bartender  was  telling.  Racey  hitched  up  his 
pants,  shifted  his  holster  forward  a  trifle,  and  went 
out. 

Johnny  did  not  hurry  down  to  the  Broken  Dollar.     He 


WHAT  DOROTHY  SAID  283 

walked  quite  casually,  turned  in  at  the  saloon  doorway 
and  went  to  the  bar.  Slay  was  standing  behind  the  bar 
talking  to  the  bartender.  He  nodded  briefly  to  Johnny 
and  himself  set  a  bottle  and  a  glass  before  him. 

Both  Slay's  hands  rested  palms  flat  on  the  wood.  But 
the  gambler  was  a  wizard  with  a  gun.  Johnny  canted  the 
bottle  with  his  left  hand. 

"I  didn't  know  you  were  left-handed,"  was  Slay's  dry 
comment. 

"I  am — sometimes,"  replied  Johnny,  and  drank  left- 
handed. 

Slay  smiled. 

"It's  a  queer  world — sometimes,"  he  said,  and  swept 
Johnny's  money  into  the  cash  drawer. 

He  again  rested  his  palms  flat  on  the  bar.  His  face  was 
inscrutable.  The  bafHed  Johnny  departed. 

"  He's  shore  a  deep  one,"  Johnny  told  himself.  "They's 
no  tellin'  whether  she  told  him  or  not.  Wish  she  would — 
or  somethin'.  I'd  like  to  get  it  over  with." 

In  the  street  he  came  upon  Racey.  That  young  man 
was  just  starting  to  walk  away  from  one  of  the  windows. 
Johnny  overtook  him  in  one  stride. 

"Nice  day,"  said  Racey  guiltily. 

"  Whadda  you  wanna  mix  in  for  ? "  asked  Johnny  directly. 

"Well,  that  Slay  might  'a'  cold-decked  yuh,"  defended 
Racey.  "Yo're  so  careless.  Yuh  know  y'are." 

"Y'  old  son  of  a  gun,"  said  Johnny,  and  affectionately 
smote  his  guardian  angel  between  the  shoulder-blades  with 
a  force  that  made  him  stagger. 

"She's  a  hour  to  supper,"  Racey  observed,  returning  the 
blow  with  interest,  and  dodging  Johnny's  counter.  "I'm 
thirsty.  I  didn't  get  no  drink  at  the  Broken  Dollar," 
he  added  pointedly. 


284  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

"Yuh  don't  need  one,"  declared  Johnny.  "My  Gawd, 
Racey,  yo're  a  sot  now.  The  last  thing  Jack  Richie  says 
to  me  was  to  look  out  for  yuh  an'  keep  yuh  away  from  the 
red-eye.  Honest,  Racey,  yore  face  right  this  minute  is 
one  fine  advertisement  for  most  any  saloon." 

"Is  that  so?"  was  Racey's  crushing  repartee.  "Is 
that  so?  You  ain't  no  pro-progprognosticker  yore  own 
self." 

"Ha-ha,"  cried  Johnny,  affecting  to  be  overcome  with 
mirth,  "listen  to  the  man.  Say,  some  time  yo're  a-goin' 
to  strangle  usin'  these  big  words  yuh  dunno  the  meanin* 
of.  Lemme  tell  yuh,  yuh  uneducated  goat,  a  feller  that 
don't  drink  is  a  probationer.  Now  run  along  an'  don't 
disturb  papa  no  more,  that's  a  good  li'l  feller." 

Leaving  Racey  speechless  with  emotion,  Johnny  walked 
away  rapidly.  He  was  going  to  the  Burr  residence,  and 
hoped  to  find  Dorothy  in  and  her  mother  out.  His  hope 
was  realized  both  ways. 

"Hello,  stranger,"  smiled  Dorothy,  delicately  tilting 
the  cover  of  the  saucepan  in  which  peas  were  bubbling. 
"How  the  years  have  changed  you." 

"I  can't  say  that  for  you,"  said  Johnny,  with  his  most 
engaging  grin.  "You  get  better-lookin'  every  day.  It's 
— it's  shore  amazin'." 

"Amazing?"  She  lifted  her  curving  eyebrows  at  this. 
"Not  in  the  least.  I  was  always  a  handsome  girl.  We  get 
more  and  more  beautiful  as  we  grow  older,  we  Burrs.  I 
can't  help  it.  It  runs  in  the  family." 

"That  listens  fine.     I— I— I ' 

"Yes?"     Sweetly,  with  a  rising  inflection. 

"I  was  just  wonderin'  if — if — "  Here  Johnny  bogged 
down  completely,  and  nervously  kicked  the  table. 

"For  Heaven's  sake,  stop  battering  the  furniture  and 


WHAT  DOROTHY  SAID  285 

tell  me  what's  on  your  mind !  Here,  stand  out  in  the  middle 
of  the  floor,  where  your  feet  can't  reach." 

He  stood  out  meekly,  fumbling  his  hat,  red  to  the  ears, 
hot  as  to  his  head,  but  with  a  clammy  coldness  chilling 
his  backbone.  How  did  a  man  propose,  anyway?  What 
did  he  say?  What  was  there  to  say?  Johnny  perspired 
freely,  gazing  haggardly  at  Dorothy.  His  knees  shook  a 
little.  He  hadn't  realized  that  it  would  be  anything  like 
this.  But  Dorothy  had  to  be  saved  from  the  horrific 
fate  of  marriage  with  Harry  Slay.  There  were  no  two 
ways  about  that.  Johnny  had  not  intended  offering  himself 
as  a  sacrifice  quite  so  soon,  but  the  sight  of  the  man  stand 
ing  in  the  Broken  Dollar,  with  the  Lord  only  knew  what 
tale  of  crimes  to  his  discredit,  had  forced  his  hand. 

"  I — I  been  thinkin'  it  over,"  he  began  desperately,  see 
ing  Dorothy  as  through  a  glass,  darkly,  "an'  I  been  thinkin' 
— I  been  thinkin' 

"Seems  to  me  you  said  that  before,  didn't  you?"  Thus 
helpfully  the  lady,  sitting  down  on  the  edge  of  the  table 
and  swinging  a  pretty  ankle. 

"Ibeenthinkin'- 

"For  Heaven's  sake,  Johnny,  where  does  it  hurt  the 
most  ?  Do  you  have  'em  often  ?  What  you  need  is  sulphur 
and  molasses.  I  know  it's  a  little  late  in  the  summer  for 
a  spring  tonic,  but  it's  the  only  thing  we  have  handy. 
Sit  down,  do,  like  a  nice  boy,  and  take  things  easy.  Try 
not  to  think." 

"I  been- 

"If  you  say  'I  been  thinkin'  again  I'll  scream.  Begin 
again — in  some  other  part  of  the  dictionary." 

The  goaded  Johnny  spread  his  legs  and  flapped  a  hand 
at  her.  As  he  grew  angry,  he  became  correspondingly 
cooler. 


286  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

"Look  here,"  he  said  distinctly,  "you  ain't  gonna  marry 
Harry  Slay." 

Dorothy  stared.     Then  she  smiled  very  oddly. 

"Ain't  I?"  she  asked. 

"No,  you  ain't.  You  been  goin'  around  with  him  too 
much  as  it  is." 

"Have  I?"     With  suspicious  sweetness. 

Johnny,  as  has  been  said,  knew  not  the  ways  of  woman. 
Her  mental  processes  were  to  him  a  sealed  book.  That 
he  was  adopting  entirely  the  wrong  tone  with  Dorothy 
Burr  did  not  occur  to  him  at  the  moment.  Hurriedly, 
with  the  utmost  confidence,  he  rushed  on  to  his  doom. 

"I  ain't  gonna  see  yuh  make  a  fool  of  yourself  with  a 
man  like  that,"  declared  Johnny.  "Yo're  gonna  marry 
me." 

"What  is  this — a  proposal?"  demanded  Dorothy 
smilelessly. 

"Shore."     Now  he  had  said  it,  Johnny  felt  a  deal  better. 

"As  a  proposer,"  Dorothy  said  judicially,  "you're  a 
first-class  cow-puncher.  This  way  out." 

She  had  slid  from  the  table,  and  one  bare  arm  pointed 
at  the  kitchen  door.  Johnny's  jaw  dropped.  This  wasn't 
the  way  it  worked  out  in  books.  She  should  have  thrown 
her  arms  round  his  neck  or  something.  Was  he  being 
turned  down  ?  He  was.  Dorothy  left  no  room  for  doubt. 

"I "  he  began. 

"Shut  up!"  she  cried,  and  stamped  her  foot.  "You 
and  your  Ts'!  You  march  right  out  that  door  and  stay 
out  and  don't  you  come  back." 

"But— but " 

"  If  you  say  another  word  I'll — I'll  box  your  ears.     Git ! " 

Johnny  got. 

When  he  was  gone,  Dorothy  slammed  the  door  with 


WHAT  DOROTHY  SAID  287 

vicious  force.  She  looked  wildly  and  unseeingly  into  the 
mirror  on  the  wall,  then  slumped  down  on  a  chair  beside 
the  table,  laid  her  head  on  her  arms,  and  began  to  cry. 

She  was  still  weeping  into  the  tablecloth  when  her 
mother  came  in  five  minutes  later.  Mrs.  Burr  dumped  her 
bundles  on  the  table.  Dorothy  sat  up,  wiping  her  eyes 
forlornly.  Mrs.  Burr  had  met  Johnny  on  his  way  to  Main 
Street.  He  had  not  seen  her.  She  had  noted  the  sulky 
expression  on  his  face  and  that  he  was  swearing  under  his 
breath. 

" What's  the  matter,  Dot?"  she  asked. 

"Bub-burnt  my  arm,"  was  the  pat  reply. 

"Oh."  A  pause,  then  another  "Oh,"  and  Mrs.  Burr 
proceeded  to  open  her  bundles,  while  Dorothy  sniffled  and 
tried  to  choke  down  the  catch  in  her  breath. 

"Didn't  I  meet  Johnny  Ramsay  comin'  away  from 
here?"  Mrs.  Burr  said  suddenly. 

"Did  you?"  sniffed  Dorothy. 

"  I  never  knowed  you  to  cry  for  a  burn  before,"  persisted 
Mrs.  Burr. 

"Well,  you'd  better  believe  I  wasn't  crying  on  account 
of  Johnny  Ramsay!"  exclaimed  Dorothy,  and  got  up  and 
ran  stumblingly  out  of  the  kitchen  into  her  own  room. 
The  closing  of  her  door  shook  the  house.  Mrs.  Burr  heard 
the  creak  of  bedsprings  and  the  strangled  sound  of  sobbing. 

"Poor  young  ones,"  sighed  Mrs.  Burr.  "What  a  lot 
they  got  to  learn." 

Which  remark  might  mean  anything. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 
A  BURRO  BRAYS 

JOHNNY  went  straight  from  the  Burr  home  to  the 
hotel  and  drank  four  whiskies  in  succession.     But 
he  was  so  angry  that  the  liquor  had  no  more  kick 
than  so  much  water.     Furthermore,  so  engrossing  were 
his  thoughts  that  he  forgot  to  invite  his  friends  to  drink 
with  him.     The  bar  might  have  been  unlined  for  all  the 
attention  he  paid  to  the  lining. 

From  the  hotel  bar-room  Johnny  went  to  the  house  of 
Jim  Mace.  Big  Jim  was  just  sitting  down  to  supper. 

"Set,"  invited  the  plump  and  hospitable  Mrs.  Mace. 
"They's  twice  as  much  steak  there  as  Jim  '11  eat." 

"I'd  shore  enjoy  to,  Mis'  Mace,"  said  Johnny,  "but  I'm 
in  a — I  gotta  go  way.  Jim,  my  hoss  needs  a  rest,  an' 
I  gotta  go  some'ers.  Lend  me  yore  red  hoss,  will 
yuh?" 

Within  fifteen  minutes  Johnny  was  astride  the  red  horse. 
He  rode  his  own  saddle  and  Daisy  Belle  cuddled  in  her 
scabbard  under  his  left  leg.  He  was  loping  along  Main 
Street,  heading  for  the  trail  to  Rocket  and  the  south,  when 
he  bethought  him  of  his  promise  to  Mrs.  Wallace. 

"Well,"  he  grunted,  "if  I  gotta,  I  gotta." 

He  turned  his  horse  toward  the  river. 

But  Mrs.  Wallace  was  not  at  home,  and  Johnny  splashed 
thankfully  across  the  Dogsoldier.  He  had  not  been  keen 
for  the  interview. 

288 


A  BURRO  BRAYS  289 

That  whole  night  he  rode  the  Rocket  trail.  Not  till 
the  morning  light  did  the  angry  soreness  quit  his  injured 
sensibilities.  But  it  left  in  its  place  an  odd  feeling  of  great 
personal  loss.  The  feeling  grew  stronger  and  stronger. 
Johnny  had  not  realized  that  he  cared  so  much  for  Dorothy. 
In  time  the  feeling  of  loss  became  an  ache,  a  large  and 
healthy  ache,  that  made  him  acutely  wretched.  When  he 
reached  Rocket  and  Dave  Sinclair's  hotel  Johnny  Ramsay 
knew  what  it  was  to  be  a  blighted  being. 

"I'll  get  them  road  agents/'  he  told  himself  vindictively, 
"an'  I'll  get  'em  good.  I  was  just  foolin'  round  before, 
but  now  I'm  gonna  have  a  real  party." 

A  blighted  being  is  frequently  possessed  of  an  almost 
uncontrollable  desire  to  perform  daring  deeds  and  all  that 
sort  of  thing,  thus  showing  the  blighter  what  she  has  lost 
by  her  inconsiderate  action. 

The  blighted  one  ate  his  supper  in  such  sullen  silence 
that  Dave  Sinclair  was  annoyed.  This  was  not  like  Johnny 
at  all.  He  had  tried  several  subjects,  but  Johnny  had  not 
bitten  once.  He  had  monosyllabled  extensively  and  eaten 
at  the  same  ratio.  For  his  last  meal  had  been  a  short 
dinner  the  previous  day,  and  even  unhappiness  cannot 
continuously  destroy  the  appetite  of  a  healthy  young  man 
who  spends  most  of  his  time  in  the  saddle. 

Dave  Sinclair  slid  another  dish  of  beans  across  the  table, 
and  hopefully  began  anew. 

"Funny  how  Hen  Riley  come  to  escape?"  he  remarked. 

"Ain't  he  been  dumped  yet?"  Johnny  asked  indif 
ferently. 

"He  ain't  an'  he  won't — not  on  Bill  Stahl's  hoss,"  said 
Dave  emphatically.  "Tell  yuh  somethin',  Johnny.  Some 
body  let  that  jigger  out.  Yessir,  you  can't  tell  me.  The 
door  o'  that  calaboose  was  unlocked  by  a  key." 


290  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

"That's  shore  a  odd  number.  A  key,  huh?  I  always 
thought  they  unlocked  doors  with  a  shovel." 

"I  mean  somebody  got  Bill's  keys  an'  unlocked  that 
door.  An'  Hen  ain't  got  any  friends  here  either.  That's 
what  makes  it  so  funny.  Who  stole  the  key?" 

"Don't  look  at  me  so  suspicious,  Dave.  I  didn't  steal 
it.  Who  did  steal  it?" 

"How'd  I  know?  But  it's  shore  funny.  The  sheriff's 
so  mad  he  swears  he'll  chase  Hen  from  hell  to  breakfast 
an*  back  till  he  gets  his  hoss.  Hen  was  shore  a  fool  to 
take  that  hoss.  He  might  'a'  knowed  Bill  wouldn't 
like  it." 

Johnny's  interest  in  the  jail  delivery  was  but  momentary. 
He  relapsed  into  silence  and  a  cigarette.  Later  he  went 
to  bed  and  slept  till  supper  time. 

In  the  twilight  he  mounted  his  horse  and  rode  on.  The 
red,  with  ten  hours'  rest  behind  him,  moved  springily. 
Johnny's  plan  was  to  go  to  Farewell  first.  From  there  he 
meant  to  work  east  across  the  range  of  the  Cross-in-a-box 
to  the  Double  Diamond  A  and  the  Hogpen.  From  the 
two  latter  ranches  he  would  comb  the  country  north  to 
the  Medicine  Mountains  and  the  Harper  Ranch.  It  was 
a  sufficiently  foolhardy  enterprise  to  carry  through  on  one's 
"lonesome,"  for  the  party  he  was  trailing  in  all  probability 
numbered  ten  men  by  now.  But  Johnny  was  in  no  mood 
for  company. 

He  did  not  follow  the  trail.  He  took  the  shortest  way. 
The  rising  sun  shone  down  upon  him  as  he  forded  the  head 
waters  of  Crow  Creek  seven  or  eight  miles  from  Cooley's 
ranch.  To  Cooley's  ranch  he  rode  for  breakfast  and  a 
sleep  on  the  Cooley  porch. 

Breakfast  was  long  over  when  Johnny  reached  the  ranch, 
but  Mrs.  Cooley  promptly  sliced  bacon  and  set  the  coffee 


A  BURRO  BRAYS  291 

on  to  boil.  Mr.  Cooley  joined  him  in  a  cup.  Visitors 
were  rare  at  the  Cooley  ranch. 

After  breakfast  Johnny  sat  on  the  porch  with  Mr. 
Cooley.  Above  Johnny's  head  a  double-cinch  packsaddle, 
burro-sawbuck  tree,  hung  against  the  wall.  The  breech 
ing,  hanging  down,  made  a  convenient  arm-rest. 

"Get  out  o'  here!"  It  was  the  voice  of  Mrs.  Cooley 
speaking  from  the  kitchen  door. 

The  command  was  supplemented  by  a  splash  as  of 
thrown  water.  Around  the  corner  of  the  house  skipped 
a  frowsy  gray  burro,  not  too  old,  rapidly  twiddling  indig 
nant  ears.  The  burro's  head  was  dripping  wet. 

He  walked  up  to  the  porch,  pointed  his  ears,  and  stared 
at  Mr.  Cooley.  Mr.  Cooley  combed  his  whiskers,  his 
faded  blue  eyes  half  closed.  The  burro  elevated  his  nose 
and  brayed  terrifically.  After  which  he  again  pointed  his 
ears  and  looked  expectant. 

"Want  yore  chaw,  huh?"  queried  Mr.  Cooley,  twisting 
his  body  so  that  he  could  reach  down  into  a  deep  hip- 
pocket. 

He  produced  a  slab  of  chewing  tobacco,  haggled  off  a 
jagged  corner,  and  tossed  it  at  the  burro.  The  animal 
caught  it  in  his  mouth  with  expert  ease,  shook  his  head 
ecstatically,  then  trotted  off  to  where  the  grass  grew  green 
and  tender  behind  the  corral. 

"Ain't  he  a  jo-darter?"  exclaimed  Mr.  Cooley  admir 
ingly.  "Took  me  three  weeks  to  find  out  it  was  tobacker 
he  wanted  when  he  talked  like  that." 

"Three  weeks,"  murmured  Johnny,  his  eyes  on  the  left 
hip  of  the  retreating  burro.  "I  never  knowed  you  had  a 
Arizona  Canary." 

"I  ain't — Julius  ain't  mine.  He  belongs  to  a  prospector 
that  stayed  here  awhile.  The  gent  rode  away  final,  an*  a 


292  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

week  later  Julius,  pack  an'  all,  come  hee-hawin  to  the 
kitchen  door.  So  I  unpacks  him — there's  his  saddle  be 
hind  yuh  now — an'  turns  him  loose,  expectin'  the  gent  will 
come  back  for  him  when  he  finds  he's  strayed.  But  he 
don't  an'  there's  Julius." 

"How  long  was  this  prospector  here?" 

"About  a  month  off  an'  on.  He  was  scoutin'  round 
them  hills  north  o'  here." 

"When  was  he  here?" 

"Well,  he  pulled  his  freight  maybe  three-four  days  before 
I  seen  you  last." 

"I  thought  you  said  when  I  asked  yuh  that  time  yuh 
hadn't  seen  any  strangers." 

"He  wasn't  a  stranger.  I'd  knowed  him  a  month. 
Lander,  Tom  Lander,  that  was  his  name,  an'  he'd  play 
pedro  all  night." 

"Yeah,"  said  Johnny  and  went  to  his  saddle  where  it 
lay  on  its  side  near  the  edge  of  the  porch  and  proceeded 
to  untie  the  strings  that  bound  his  slicker.  "Did  he 
happen  to  be  here  the  night  of  the  twenty-third  of  June?" 

Mr.  Cooley  scratched  his  head  and  pondered. 

"I  think  maybe  he  was,"  said  he.  "I'll  ask  Mary. 
She'll  know." 

He  bawled  his  question  and  Mrs.  Cooley  came  to  the 
door. 

"The  twenty-third  o'  June?"  she  repeated.  "Seems 
to  me  now  that  was  the  day  you  broke  the  churn,  Cooley, 
gettin'  mad  at  it  for  stickin' — shore,  yuh  needn't  mumble 
an'  deny  it.  You  remember  all  right.  Shore,  the  twenty- 
third.  He  wasn't  here  during  the  day,  Mister  Lander 
wasn't,  but  he  stayed  all  night." 

"Then  he  was  here  the  mornin'  o'  the  twenty-fourth," 
said  Johnny,  getting  up  from  his  knees. 


A  BURRO  BRAYS  293 

"Of  course/'  Mrs.  Cooley  told  him  impatiently. 

Johnny  laid  across  Mr.  Cooley's  spread  knees  the  article 
he  had  taken  from  the  folds  of  his  slicker.  It  was  a  split- 
ear  bridle,  hand-carved,  silver  rein-chains,  and  silver 
buckle  and  conchas.  Altogether  a  superior  bridle,  and 
one  not  easily  forgotten.  Mr.  Cooley  blinked. 

"That's  Tom  Lander's  bridle,"  he  said  slowly,  and  raised 
inquiring  eyes  to  Johnny's  face. 

"I  took  that  off  a  dead  gray  boss  about  five  mile  south 
of  here.  The  brand  on  that  boss  was  H  L,  same  as  the 
brand  on  that  burro.  Cooley,  I  don't  guess  Tom  Lander'll 
ever  come  back  for  Julius." 

Johnny  Ramsay  did  not  ride  to  Farewell.  Instead  he 
returned  to  Paradise  Bend.  With  him  rode  Mr.  Cooley, 
a  very  quiet  Mr.  Cooley,  who  chewed  a  great  deal  of  to 
bacco  and  led  Julius  at  the  end  of  a  rope.  Julius  was 
packed.  Under  the  diamond  hitch  was  stuck  a  miner's 
long-handled  shovel  and  pick.  On  the  way  they  stopped 
at  Rocket. 

That  their  entry  into  the  Bend  might  be  unobserved 
they  rode  in  at  night.  Julius  was  turned  into  Soapy  Rags- 
dale's  corral.  Julius'  pack  and  the  mining  tools  were 
stowed  away  and  out  of  sight  under  Soapy's  counter. 

In  the  back  room  of  Soapy's  store  Johnny  spoke  at  some 
length  to  Laguerre,  Harmer,  Soapy,  Jim  Mace,  Racey 
Dawson  and  the  quiet  Mr.  Cooley  who  ceased  not  to  work 
his  jaws  squirrel-wise.  When  Johnny  finished  talking 
there  was  a  silence  while  men  looked  at  each  other. 

"I'm  damned,"  said  Soapy  Ragsdale  after  a  space. 
"I'm  shore  damned." 

"Bill  Stahl's  here  now,"  murmured  Jim  Mace,  drum 
ming  with  his  fingers  on  the  table-top. 


294  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

"I  sarw  him,"  Johnny  nodded. 

"Djuh  know,"  drawled  Racey  Dawson,  "I  never  did 
believe  Hen  Riley  doubled  back." 

"It  didn't  sound  natural,"  admitted  Soapy  Ragsdale. 

Harmer  said  nothing.  He  sat  as  still  as  still,  his  eyes 
fixed  on  nothing,  his  features  set  like  flint. 

"How  long  has  Bill  Stahl  been  here?"  inquired  Johnny. 

"Three  days,"  Jim  Mace  told  him.  "He's  goin'  back 
to-morrow." 

"Will  he?"  said  Johnny  softly.     "I  wonder." 

"Scotty  Mackenzie  will  want  in  on  this,"  put  in  Soapy 
Ragsdale.  "I'm  gonna  go  out  to  the  Flyin'  M." 

Soapy  Ragsdale  departed.  So  did  Johnny.  But  he 
did  not  go  to  the  corral.  He  went  down  the  street  to  the 
Broken  Dollar  and  had  a  lonely  one  finger  at  the  bar. 
Across  the  room,  beside  the  high  stool  of  one  of  the  look 
outs,  stood  Harry  Slay. 

And  that  was  the  man  Dorothy  Burr  intended  to  marry. 
For  that  low-flung  bandit,  tinhorn,  and  in  all  probability 
murderer  as  well,  she  had  turned  down  Johnny  Ramsay. 
Johnny  had  strong  hopes  that  circumstances  arising  in  the 
next  few  days  would  effectually  prevent  the  marriage. 
Yet  he  was  no  happier,  for  he  himself  would  not  be  bene 
fited  thereby.  Dorothy  had  refused  him,  and  the  world 
was  a  dark  place  to  live  in,  and  his  life  was  completely 
spoiled. 

Johnny,  sulkily  regarding  his  successful  rival,  was 
caught  staring  and  had  to  nod.  To  give  him  an  excuse 
for  turning  his  back,  Johnny  bought  a  cigar  he  didn't 
want,  stuck  it  unlighted  between  his  teeth  and  side- 
wheeled  slowly  out. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 
A  FAIR  AND  SUMMER  MORNING 

MANY  horses  were  being  saddled  at  the  various 
corrals  in  the  morning.     The  men  that  cinched 
on  the  heavy  hulls  were  a  serious-faced  outfit  of 
citizens.     None  of  them  smiled.     They  rarely  spoke  one 
to  another. 

"I'm  takin'  one  bunch  south  to  Harper's/'  Johnny  said 
to  Scotty  Mackenzie,  "  an'  Laguerre's  goin'  west.  Whad- 
da  yuh  think  o'  Crow  Creek  way  for  you  an'  yore  boys?" 

Scotty  was  looking  down  Main  Street  toward  the  Rocket 
trail.  His  blue  eyes  turned  frosty  as  he  looked.  He  did 
not  reply  for  a  moment.  Then  he  said : 

"I  guess  none  of  us  will  have  to  go.  Here  they  come 
now." 

Johnny  swung  round. 

"Don't  look  quite  like  we  expected,  do  they?"  said  he. 

"De  black-tail  dun,"  remarked  Laguerre,  edging  up  to 
Johnny. 

Up  Main  Street  five  men  were  riding.  The  leader  was 
Chance  Blaisdell.  The  others  were  Jack  Murgatroyd  and 
three  strangers.  One  of  the  strangers  was  riding  a  black- 
tail  dun. 

Four  saddled  led  horses  accompanied  the  riders.  Across 
each  empty  saddle  a  corpse  was  lashed  pack-fashion — a 
dead  and  gruesome  body  with  dangling  arms  and  legs  that 
flopped  and  jerked  indecently. 

295 


296  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

The  five  rode  up  and  stopped. 

"Howdy,  gents,"  said  Chance  Blaisdell,  his  alert  animal, 
like  eyes  sweeping  the  crowd. 

"What  yuh  got?"  asked  Soapy  Ragsdale. 

"We  got  the  fellers  that  helped  hold  up  the  train,"  de 
clared  Chance,  smiling,  and  swinging  to  the  ground. 
"Caught  'em  over  on  Crow  Creek  an'  rubbed  out  four  of 
'em.  Where's  Bill  Stahl?" 

"Be  here  in  a  minute,"  said  Johnny.  "Howdja  know 
they're  the  hold-ups?" 

"Trailed  'em.     Skinny  squealed  before  he  died." 

"Got  the  cash?" 

"Naw,  they  must  'a'  cached  it  some'ers." 

"We'll  find  that  later,"  contributed  the  stranger  on  th« 
dun. 

He  was  a  clean-shaven  young  man  with  a  hard  face  an<? 
a  slight  stoop. 

"But  I  know  Skinny  an'  Spill  Harper  was  in  Piegan 
City  when  the  train  was  held  up,"  said  Johnny.  "They 
was  in  the  posse  with  us,  Jack,  an'  you  know  it." 

"Shore  I  know  it,"  said  the  dark-faced  deputy.  "They 
didn't  actually  hold  up  the  train.  They  just  fixed  it  so 
it  would  be  held  up — telegrams  an'  things,"  he  added 
vaguely. 

"Oh,  yeah,  I  see,"  Johnny  said,  looking  at  the  dead 
bodies. 

Chance,  relating  swiftly  the  manner  in  which  the  four 
had  met  their  deaths,  helped  his  friends  unpack  the  bodies 
and  prop  them  sitting  against  the  stockade  of  the  corral. 
It  was  noticeable  that  Chance  did  all  the  talking. 

"A  good  job,"  observed  Chance,  and  rested  his  knuckles 
on  his  hips  and  spread  his  legs. 

The  crowd  muttered  and  swayed  closer  to  the  stockade. 


A  FAIR  AND  SUMMER  MORNING        297 

Those  four  dead  men  were  well-known  citizens — the  Har 
per  boys,  Skinny  Devinney  and  Tom  Keen. 

"I  wish  we  could  'a'  got  the  other  six,"  said  Chance, 
"but  she's  like  I  says,  gents,  their  hosses  was  too  handy, 
an*  ours  was  beat  out.  We  got  part  of  the  gang,  anyway, 
an' " 

Johnny  had  heard  enough.  He  pushed  free  of  the  crowd, 
twitching  Racey's  sleeve  as  he  passed  him. 

"Get  'em  into  the  bar  an'  keep  'em  there,"  said  Johnny, 
when  they  were  behind  the  kitchen  lean-to.  "  I  got  a  idea. 
It's  a  bird.  I'm  gonna  get  Julius." 

"Wait  a  shake,"  begged  Racey,  greatly  mystified  by  the 
cryptic  sentences. 

But  Johnny  evaded  the  clutching  hands  and  ran  round 
the  corner. 

"Talkin's  dry  work,"  suggested  Racey  in  Chance's  ear. 
"Let's  irrigate— all  of  us." 

Which  was  a  large  order,  but  as  Racey  intended  making 
Johnny  foot  the  bill,  what  did  he  care  for  money? 

Chance  and  his  friends  in  the  van,  the  crowd  jostled 
into  the  hotel  and  lined  the  bar  four  deep.  Bottle-neck 
clinked  on  tumbler-rim  and  there  was  merriment  and 
joy. 

"Meet  my  friend,  Mister  Crail,"  said  Chance  Blaisdell, 
indicating  the  hard-faced  young  man  who  had  ridden  the 
black-tail  dun. 

Racey  shook  hands  with  this  person  and  they  drank 
together. 

"Dunno  what  we'd  have  done  without  Sam  Crail," 
Chance  averred  loudly.  "It  was  him  done  most  o'  the 
trailin'." 

"It  wasn't  no  trouble,"  deprecated  Mr.  Crail,  and  filled 
his  glass. 


298  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

Ten  minutes  later  the  hotel  proprietor,  carefully  primed 
by  Johnny  Ramsay,  entered  the  barroom. 

"Hey,  Chance!"  he  called.  "How  long  yuh  gonna 
leave  them  four  remainders  in  the  hot  sun?  They're  too 
near  the  kitchen,  an'  the  cook  don't  like  it.  You'll  have  to 
move  'em." 

"Fair  enough,"  said  Chance,  and  he  and  his  four  com 
panions  went  out  to  the  corral.  Near  the  row  of  bodies, 
tied  to  the  bar  of  the  gate  a  melancholy  gray 'burro  stood 
and  fanned  his  ears  and  tail  at  the  flies.  The  burro  was 
packed  as  if  in  readiness  for  the  trail.  Under  the  diamond 
hitch  was  thrust  a  pick  and  a  long-handled  shovel.  Across 
the  top  of  the  pack  lay  a  bridle — a  beautifully  hand-carved 
split-ear  with  silver  buckle  and  conchas. 

At  sight  of  the  burro  Chance's  eyelids  twitched  and  he 
stumbled.  Then  he  walked  on  and  laid  hold  of  dead  Bale 
Harper's  shoulders. 

"Take  his  feet,  Jack,"  said  Chance. 

Jack  stooped.  Mr.  Crail  and  the  other  two  strangers 
bent  over  the  body  of  Keen. 

"Just  stay  right  there,"  said  Johnny  Ramsay.  "An9 
don't  move  yore  hands" 

There  was  something  in  Johnny's  tone  that  told  them 
he  was  not  joking.  The  five  turned  their  astonished  heads 
and  stared  into  the  muzzles  of  a  large  and  varied  assort 
ment  of  firearms.  At  least  four  deadly  weapons  were 
trained  on  Chance  Blaisdell.  None  of  the  five  men 
budged. 

"What  yuh  tryin'  to  do!"  cried  Chance  after  an  amazed 
moment. 

"I'm  doin'  it,"  said  Johnny,  removing  Chance's  gun, 
while  Laguerre  and  a  few  friends  similarly  served  Chance's 
comrades. 


A  FAIR  AND  SUMMER  MORNING        299 

"I'd  shore  like  to  know—      "  began  Mr.  Crail. 

"So  would  we  lak  to  know,"  Laguerre  said  brutally. 
"Let  dat  dead  man  down  easy — so.  You  come  wit'  me." 

Chance,  Crail,  Jack  Murgatroyd  and  the  other  two  men 
did  not  cease  to  complain  bitterly  as  they  were  all  herded 
into  the  Jacks  Up  Saloon  and  crowded  into  a  corner  under 
guard. 

"By  Gawd!"  exclaimed  Chance,  in  a  rage.  "Whadda 
you  fellers  tryin'  to  do?" 

"We  just  want  to  talk  to  yuh  a  li'l  bit,"  said  Johnny 
mildly,  "an'  ask  yuh  a  few  questions.  If  yuh  answer  'em 
all  free  'an  plenteous  yuh  can  go  on  yore  way  rejoicin'." 

"When  I  do,"  averred  Chance,  "you  won't  go  on  yore 
way  rejoicin'." 

"Maybe,"  nodded  Johnny.  "We  oughta  appoint  a 
jury  an'  a  judge." 

"I'll  be  judge,"  said  Dan  Smith,  the  marshal. 

But  Soapy  Ragsdale  was  the  people's  choice  for  that 
office.  Dan  Smith  did  not  even  get  on  the  jury.  Much 
disgusted,  he  remained  to  grumble  at  the  proceedings. 

"The  court  bein'  made  up,  we'll  begin,"  Johnny  said, 
and  dangled  in  front  of  Chance's  eyes  the  bridle  with  the 
silver  conchas.  "Chance,"  he  continued,  "djever  see 
this  split-ear  before?" 

Chance  hesitated.     Then  he  said: 

"Shore.  I  seen  it.  It  was  the  bridle  on  the  hoss  of  the 
aid  road  agent  I  had  to  kill  down  there  at  Rocket.  You 
seen  me  down  him  when  he  was  tryin'  to  break  away.  I 
s'pose  you  took  the  bridle  offen  his  dead  hoss  over  south 
o'  Cooley's.  Shore  it's  his  bridle." 

As  Chance  spoke  Harmer's  finger-nails  dug  deep  into 
the  palms  of  his  hands. 

"Djever  see  that  burro  before?"  pursued  Johnny. 


300  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

"What  burro?" 

"That  gray  burro  with  the  pack,  tied  to  the  corral  bars." 

"Never  seen  it  before  in  my  life." 

" Shore  o'  that?" 

"Shore." 

"Yet  that  burro  is  branded  L  H  on  the  left  hip,  same  as 
that  dead  gray  boss  south  of  Cooley's  was  branded.  An 
you  say  you  never  seen  the  burro?" 

"No,  I  tell  you!" 

"Then  what  made  yuh  wiggle  yore  eyes  an'  stub  yore 

foot  when   yuh   seen   him,  huh? Dunno?     All   right, 

we'll  let  it  go  at  that.  Here's  somethin'  else.  Djuh  re 
member,  Chance,  how  the  old  gent  yuh  downed  that  time 
in  Rocket,  how  he  come  runnin'  for  Telescope  an'  me 
shoutin',  'I  can  tell — '  an'  that's  as  far  as  he  got,  'cause 
you  downed  him.  I  wonder  what  it  was  he  could  tell, 
Chance?" 

"I  dunno,"  said  Chance  defiantly. 

Crail  was  scratching  his  head  nonchalantly.  The  other 
three  looked  uncomfortable. 

"Yuh'll  swear  yuh  found  a  busted  Wells-Fargo  package 
with  some  money  in  her  an'  one  of  Old  Man  Fane's  buck 
skin  bags  on  this  man  you  downed  in  Rocket?" 

"Of  course  I  do." 

Johnny  called  Mr.  Cooley.  That  gentleman  testified 
before  the  pop-eyed  crowd  that  the  man  killed  in  Rocket, 
as  described  by  Johnny  Ramsay,  was,  to  the  best  of  his 
knowledge,  none  other  than  Tom  Lander,  a  prospector 
who  had  stayed  off  and  on  at  his  ranch,  for  a  month.  The 
bridle  Johnny  had  in  his  hand  was  the  bridle  of  Lander's 
gray  horse.  He  had  seen  it  often,  had  Mr.  Cooley.  On 
the  afternoon  of  the  date  of  the  Fane  hold-up  Lander  had 
been  playing  pedro  with  Mr.  Cooley  at  the  ranch-house. 


A  FAIR  AND  SUMMER  MORNING        301 

The  night  of  the  Cutter  robbery  Tom  Lander  had  slept 
the  night  through  at  Cooley's. 

"What's  Tom  Lander  gotta  do  with  me?"  snarled 
Chance. 

Johnny  took  from  his  pocket  a  penknife. 

"When  I  was  ridin'  in  from  Cooley's  me  an*  Cooley 
stopped  at  Rocket,"  he  said.  "Naturally  I  asked  Dave 
Sinclair  a  few  questions.  It  come  out  that  it  was  Dave 
an'  the  marshal  who  buried  the  man  you  killed,  Chance. 
They  searched  him  first,  an*  all  they  found  was  this  pen 
knife.  Dave,  he  kep'  it.  This  is  it.  Mister  Harmer, 
have  you  ever  seen  this  knife  before?" 

Mr.  Harmer  looked  dully  at  the  knife. 

"It's  my  knife,"  he  said  quietly.  "I  lent  her  to  Tom 
Lander  just  before  he  rode  away  north." 

"I  seen  it  too,"  piped  up  Mr.  Cooley.  "I  often  seen 
Tom  Lander  pick  his  teeth  with  that  knife." 

"I  guess  that's  enough,"  Johnny  said.  "I  knowed  they 
was  somethin'  off  when  you  downed  that  feller,  Chance. 
It  was  so  damn  unnecessary.  He  couldn't  'a'  got  away. 
But  I  never  really  was  satisfied  till  I  talked  to  Cooley. 
Listen  here,  Chance.  Wasn't  you  an'  three  other  men 
sittin'  near  them  mountain  ash  trees  south  of  Cooley's 
dividin'  the  proceeds  of  the  Cutter  deal,  when  along  come 
Tom  Lander  an'  surprised  yuh  ?  You  wasn't,  huh  ?  An' 
I'm  shore  you  was  'cause  we  knowed  by  they  bein'  no 
tracks  behind  the  dead  gray  that  he  was  walkin'  when  he 
was  downed. 

"After  takin'  Lander  prisoner  yuh  went  to  Cooley's 
for  a  pony  for  him.  Cooley  asked  yuh  to  bring  him  past 
the  ranch  so's  his  wife  could  see  a  real  live  road  agent,  but 
yuh  took  good  care  not  to  go  near  no  houses  till  yuh 
reached  Rocket.  There  yuh  let  him  try  to  escape  so's 


302  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

yuh'd  have  an  excuse  to  down  him  right  in  plain  sight  of  a 
lot  o'  folks  an'  get  a  name  for  doin'  yore  duty.  Ain't  that 
the  how  of  it,  Chance?" 

"I  was  sleepin'  in  Cutter  the  night  o'  the  hold-up,  an* 
I  can  prove  it!"  roared  Chance. 

"I  know  that,"  said  Johnny.  "I  don't  believe  y'ever 
were  in  many  o'  these  robberies.  Yuh  sort  o'  laid  back 
an*  let  some  other  fellah  do  the  work.  Yuh  done  things 
like  fake  trailin'  an'  tollin'  the  sheriff  off  on  a  wild  trail 
whenever  somethin'  was  goin'  to  happen  an'  yuh  didn't 
want  him  round.  Yuh  played  foxy,  Chance,  but  that 
ain't  sayin'  yuh  wasn't  near  them  mountain  ashes 
south  o'  Cooley's  when  Lander's  horse  was  downed. 
Why  didja  let  the  burro  get  away,  Chance?  Yuh'd  oughta 
downed  him  an  buried  his  pack.  Instead  o'  that  yuh 
let  him  get  away.  An'  why  didn't  yuh  bury  the  saddle 
an'  bridle  of  that  gray  boss?  Was  yuh  in  a  hurry,  or 
what?" 

"Yuh  can't  prove  nothin'  on  me — on  us!"  grated 
Chance,  his  eyes  glaring. 

"I'm  gonna  try,"  averred  Johnny.  "I'm  gonna  work 
this  thing  out  from  the  beginnin'.  I  want  you  to  be  sat 
isfied,  Chance." 

"You  go  to !"  blared  the  baited  deputy. 

Jack  Murgatroyd  looked  his  contempt  of  the  fuming 
Blaisdell.  Crail  yawned.  Their  two  comrades  shifted 
from  one  foot  to  another  and  swapped  tobacco  for 
matches. 

"Crail,"  said  Johnny,  "does  that  mare  you  rode  in  on 
belong  to  you?" 

"Think  I  rustled  her?"  Crail  sneered. 

"I  dunno.     I'm  askin'." 

"You  can  take  it  that  she's  mine." 


A  FAIR  AND  SUMMER  MORNING        303 

"Owned  her  long?" 

"Wouldn't  yuh  like  her  birth  certificate  an*  where  she 
was  born,  an*  the  name  of  her  pa  and  ma?" 

"It  would  shore  help,"  was  Johnny's  grave  reply.  "But 
seein'  as  yuh  ain't  likely  to  have  all  that  information  in 
yore  breast-pocket  a  answer  to  what  I  asked  yuh  will  have 
to  do.  Have  yuh  owned  that  mare  long?" 

"Three  years." 

"Where  djuh  get  her?" 

"Fort  Worth.  That  cayuse  is  all  the  way  from  Texas, 
an'  I  wish  she  was  back  there  with  me  on  her  back.  By 
Gawd,  I  never  seen  such  a  suspicious  lot  o'  badgers  as 
you  gents,  an'  I've  travelled  a  lot.  Gimme  the  makin's, 
Chance." 

"Gents,"  said  Johnny,  turning  to  the  jury,  "one  o'  the 
three  men  that  shot  Old  Man  Fane  an'  Bill  Homan  rode 
a  black-tail  dun.  Telescope  an'  me  found  where  these 
three  tied  their  bosses.  By  the  hoofmarks,  by  black  hairs 
caught  on  the  brush,  by  threads  of  rope  stickin'  into  the 
bark  of  a  tree,  we  made  out  that  the  black-tail  was  a  ner 
vous  boss  an'  pulled  back  when  tied.  Some  time  ago  a 
black-tail  dun  mare  was  sold  by  Black  Bear,  a  Piegan  on 
the  Fort  Yardley  reservation,  to  that  red-headed  jigger, 
Barry  Camp. 

"This  mare  was  a  whizzer,  kicked,  bit,  pulled — the 
whole  layout.  Bucked,  of  course.  Four  bosses  had  been 
tied  to  the  trees  south  o'  Cooley's  where  Tom  Lander  went 
out.  They  was  li'l  threads  of  manila  ground  in  the  bark 
of  one  of  them  trees.  Yuh  remember  what  I  told  yuh 
this  mornin'  about  Mose  Peters  an'  his  black-tail  dun  mare 
at  Diamond.  Gents,  that  mare  there  was  a  biter,  a  kicker, 
an'  a  puller.  One  o'  the  eleven  bosses  belongin'  to  the  hold 
ups  had  a  black  tail  an'  was  a  puller,  too.  Gents,  take  a 


3o4  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

look  out  the  window  at  the  hitchin'-rail  in  front  of  the 
hotel." 

Instantly  the  doorway  and  windows  were  crowded  with 
eager  heads.  Tied  by  the  neck,  not  to  the  hitch  ing-rail 
proper,  but  to  the  much  stronger  anchorage  of  the  middle 
post,  a  dun  mare  alternately  swayed  back  on  her  rope  and 
snapped  her  teeth  at  the  empty  air.  This  exercise  she 
varied  by  lashing  out  with  both  hind  legs  at  any  dog  ap 
proaching  within  five  yards  of  her.  Decidedly,  that  dun 
mare  was  not  a  children's  pet. 

As  the  steel  is  drawn  to  the  magnet,  public  attention 
was  drawn  to  the  hard-faced  gentleman  known  as  Crail. 
Public  opinion  voiced  itself  strongly.  The  younger  set 
clamoured  for  the  rope. 

" Gents,  this  has  gotta  be  legal!'*  bawled  Soapy  Rags- 
dale,  and  the  solid  citizens  backed  him  up,  arguing  that 
it  was  precisely  these  hasty,  unthinking  lynchings  that 
gave  the  West  a  bad  name  and  retarded  immigration. 
Which  was  good  logic,  and  made  the  hotheads  pause. 

"Y'  ain't  proved  nothin'!"  cried  Chance,  taking  ad 
vantage  of  the  lull. 

"Chance,"  said  Johnny,  "you  an'  yore  friends  are 
shorely  foxy.  Gotta  give  yuh  credit.  Which  one  of  yuh 
was  it  that  thought  of  lettin'  Hen  Riley  slide  out  of  the 
Rocket  calaboose  on  Bill  Stahl's  boss  so  that  Bill  would 
chase  him  from  hell  to  breakfast  an'  get  Jake  Rule  to  help 
him,  thereby  allowin'  the  road  agents  to  make  a  heap  oJ 
trail  north  while  the  sheriffs  was  all  busy  some'ers  else? 
That  was  one  slick  trick,  that  was.  AnJ  Murgatroyd 
gettin'  Bill  Stahl  to  let  him  go  to  Piegan  to  look  up  evi 
dence  against  the  road  agents! 

"Jack,  I  never  suspected  you  till  that  night  at  Marys- 
ville  when  yuh  come  bulgin'  into  the  judge's  house  an' 


A  FAIR  AND  SUMJMER  MORNING        305 

seen  me  there.  It  was  one  hot  night,  remember,  an'  the 
shades  was  all  down,  makin'  it  hotter.  An*  you  just  sat 
there  an*  sweated  an*  never  asked  why  was  the  shades 
pulled.  Also  I  never  heard  yuh  talk  so  much  in  my  life. 
Which  wasn't  natural,  Jack." 

"Say,  gents,"  broke  in  Crail,  "I  ask  you  what  has  this 
idjit  proved?  Hosses  that  pull  back  an*  shades  pulled 
down!  If  you  can  stretch  a  man  on  stuff  like  that,  a  gent 
won't  dast  to  look  sideways  no  more  without  bein'  sus 
pected  of  murder!" 

"I'm  doin'  my  best,"  said  Johnny,  "an'  I  ain't  all 
through  neither.  Listen,  she  was  a  forty  sixty-five  killed 
Bill  Homan,  a  forty  sixty-five  was  used  in  the  fight  at 
Farewell  when  Holloway  was  downed  an'  SJim  Berdan 
nicked.  They  was  a  forty  sixty-five  at  Harper's  ranch. 
Crail,  they's  a  forty  sixty-five  under  yore  left  fender. 
Where  did  yuh  buy  the  cartridges  for  that  rifle?  I  asked 
at  more  than  one  place,  but  nobody  kept  forty  sixty-fives 

in  stock Now,  now,  don't  tell  me  if  yuh  don't  wanna. 

It  don't  make  no  difference.  I  was  just  wonderin',  thassall. 
If  Mister  Mace  would  kindly  get  that  rifle." 

Mr.  Mace  kindly  would  and  did.  Johnny  took  the  rifle 
and  held  it  level  across  his  middle. 

"Now — "  began  Johnny. 

"Hell's  bells,"  interrupted  Crail,  "they's  lots  o'  forty 
sixty-fives.  Anybody  could  easy  own  one." 

"Are  yuh  shore  Skinny  Devinney  didn't  own  this  rifle?" 
said  Johnny.  "Are  yuh  shore  yuh  didn't  change  guns 
with  him  after  yuh  killed  him,  on  account  of  bustin'  yore 
own  or  somethin'?" 

Johnny  looked  hopefully  at  Crail,  but  Crail  was  not  to 
be  caught  by  leading  questions.  He  was  too  clever  a  bird 
for  that. 


306  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

"She's  my  own  Winchester,"  he  declared  with  an  oath. 
"Ask  my  friends  here,"  he  urged. 

The  four  of  them  eagerly  swore  to  the  ownership.  The 
two  strangers  went  further.  They  said  they  had  seen 
Crail  buy  the  rifle  down  in  the  Panhandle. 

"You've  had  this  rifle  with  yuh  right  along,  then?" 
said  Johnny. 

"Shore,"  Crail  told  him. 

"All  right.  Gents,  you  hear  what  he  says.  Now  you 
listen  hard.  Telescope  an'  I  was  at  the  Harper  ranch  one 
day.  They  was  a  forty  sixty-five  there.  I  shot  against 
Skinny  an'  Spill  with  it,  an'  I  managed  to  nick  the  loadin'- 
gate  with  my  knife  without  them  seein'  me  so  it  scratched 
the  cartridge  in  two  places  when  yuh  put  it  in.  I  got  the 
idea  from  my  own  loadin'-gate  bein'  scratched  when  I  first 
came  here  an'  you'all  tried  me  for  the  murder  of  Fane  an* 
Homan.  I  throwed  one  o'  the  empties  under  the  bulge 
of  the  foundation  log  of  the  ranch-house,  another  I  kicked 
under  a  bench  by  the  door.  Mister  Harmer,  will  yuh  take 
them  two  spent  shells  out  of  yore  pocket  an'  tell  the  boys 
where  yuh  got  'em." 

Mr.  Harmer  did  this.  When  his  testimony  was  con 
cluded  the  empties  were  stood  on  end  on  a  chair  seat,  and 
Johnny  took  from  his  pocket  seven  other  spent  shells  and 
aligned  them  with  the  first  two. 

"Gents,"  said  he,  "Mister  Harmer  seen  me  pick  up 
these  seven  shells  near  the  express-car  after  the  robbery 
in  the  cut  west  o'  Diamond.  They's  a  few  cartridges 
in  this  magazine — by  the  heft.  I'll  just  work  'em 
out." 

Rapidly  he  pumped  the  lever.  Four  cartridges  whirled 
over  his  shoulder  and  clattered  on  the  floor.  He  picked 
them  up  and  placed  them  in  a  row  behind  the  nine  empties. 


A  FAIR  AND  SUMMER  MORNING        307 

Grail's  eyelids  twitched.  He  was  beginning  to  perceive 
the  true  inwardness  of  Johnny's  leading  questions. 

"I'd  like  the  jury  to  look  at  the  scratches  on  them  thir 
teen  pieces  o'  brass,"  said  Johnny  Ramsay. 

The  gentlemen  of  the  jury  looked.  They  and  Soapy 
Ragsdale  examined  with  great  care  the  spent  shells  and 
the  live  cartridges.  Judge  and  jury  went  back  to  their 
places. 

"No  use  a-talkin',  boys,"  said  Soapy,  addressing  the 
prisoners.  "That  forty  sixty-five  Winchester  Johnny's 
holdin'  was  used  in  the  Diamond  hold-up.  Do  yuh  still 
swear  she's  Crail's  Winchester?" 

The  five  men  made  no  reply. 

"They  was  five  men  actually  in  that  hold-up,"  continued 
Soapy.  "We  know  by  what  Johnny  told  us  last  night 
that  Camp,  Devinney,  Tom  Keen,  an'  the  Harper  boys 
was  only  accessories.  We  know  Chance  an'  Jack  Murga- 
troyd  was  busy  some'ers  else.  That  leaves  a  couple  besides 
you,  Crail,  an'  them  two  gents  at  the  end.  Who  an'  where 
is  the  missin'  pair? — Won't  tell,  huh  ?  All  right.  Where's 
Barry  Camp? — Dumb  again,  huh?  Where's  the  money, 
then?" 

"Yo're  so  smart — you've  found  out  so  much,"  grunted 
Chance,  "s'pose  now  you  just  find  that  money." 

"Maybe  we  will,  but  you  won't  be  alive  when  we  do. 
Chance,  you  an'  them  other  four  gents  are  about  the  lowest 
set  o'  things  that  crawl.  I'd  call  yuh  snakes,  only  I'd 
have  to  apologize  every  time  I  meet  a  reptyle.  You  an* 
them  four  dead  men  outside  was  pardners.  You  downed 
'em  so's  yuh  could  have  their  share  an'  somebody  to  lay 
the  blame  on.  You  was  bright-witted  enough  to  know  that 
folks  wasn't  none  likely  to  bust  their  necks  askin'  where, 
how,  an'  whyfor  when  yuh  told  yore  li'l  tale  about  these 


308  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

dead  men  bein*  accessories  before  an'  after,  so  I  guess  yuh 
was  bright-witted  enough  to  make  it  a  full  hand  by  rubbin* 
out  Camp  an'  the  missin'  pair.  We  hope  so. 

"We  only  wish  yuh'd  brought  'em  into  camp  along  with 
the  rest.  Was  Camp  an'  any  o'  you  fellers,  Crail  for  in 
stance,  in  the  Farewell  racket  when  Holloway  was  downed 
an'  Slim  Berdan  nicked?  Was  yuh,  huh?  They  was  a 
forty  sixty-five  in  that  riot,  yuh  know — Can't  say,  huh? 
All  right,  let  it  go  at  that.  I  guess  some  of  yuh  was  there 
all  right,  but  after  all,  it  don't  really  signify — now.  Look 
here,  how  about  Bill  Stahl?  Was  he  in  cahoots  with 
you  fellers?  We  lynched  him  on  suspicion  this  mornin* 
early." 

"What  did  yuh  hang  him  for?"  cried  Jack  Murgatroyd. 
"He  didn't  know  nothin'  about  nothin*.  We  used  to 
laugh.  Foolin'  him  was  like  foolin'  a  baby.  He  was  just 
plain  simple-minded,  that  feller.  All  the  same,  yuh 
shouldn't  'a'  lynched  him." 

"We  didn't,"  said  the  amazing  Mr.  Ragsdale.  "We 
kind  o'  thought  he  was  just  a  mark  like  you  say,  so  we 
locked  him  up  in  the  calaboose  till  we  could  find  out  for 
shore.  We've  caught  yuh  in  a  heap  of  lies,  but  we'll  take 
it  yo're  tellin'  the  truth  about  the  sheriff  seein'  as  they 
ain't  a  hoofmark  to  mix  Bill  into  this.  Carey,  you  got  the 
key.  Might  as  well  let  Bill  out.  Chance,  an'  you  other 
boys,  here's  a  idea!  We  want  to  know  where  that  money 
is,  an'  who  the  other  gents  are  in  this  hold-up  business. 
I  guess  the  boys  will  be  willin'  to  let  one  of  yuh  go  free  if 
he'll  tell  us  what  we  want  to  know.  I'll  get  a  pack  of  cards, 
an'  yuh  can  cut  for  high  card  to  win.  Hey,  barkeep, 
where's  a  pack  of  cards?" 

"Nemmine  about  no  cards!"  exclaimed  Crail.  "We'll 
stand  pat,  I  guess." 


A  FAIR  AND  SUMMER  MORNING        309 

Four  sullen,  defiant  faces  corroborated  Grail's  pro 
nouncement. 

"You  know  best,"  Soapy  said  gently,  and,  with  a  nice 
regard  for  the  feelings  of  the  condemned,  leaned  his  head 
close  to  Jim  Mace's  ear  while  he  whispered  behind  his 
hand,  "Jim,  will  you  slide  out  an'  collect  five  ropes?  The 
newest  an'  stiffest,  Jim.  We'll  be  along  in  a  minute." 


CHAPTER  XXV 

GREEN  AND  GOLD 

IDIDNT  see  Slay  at  the  trial  this  mornin',"  said  Racey 
Dawson  to  Johnny,  as  they  sat  on  the  reach  of  a 
boxless  freight-wagon  in  the  cool  of  the  evening. 

"I  seen  him.  He  wasn't  right  up  under  the  pulpit,  but 
he  was  there.  At  the  lynchin'  too,  he  kind  of  stayed  back 
where  it  was  cool." 

"He  oughta  be  down  in  them  cottonwoods  with  the 
other  five,"  declared  Racey. 

"They  ain't  a  thing  against  him.  Nobody  snitched  on 
him  like  I  expected.  What  can  yuh  prove?" 

"Nothin',"  admitted  Racey.  " the  luck!  Chance 

was  gonna  squeal  when  he  was  sittin'  there  on  the  hoss  un 
der  the  limb  with  the  rope  round  his  neck.  An*  you  had 
to  let  Jack  Murgatroyd  start  the  hoss!" 

"I've  told  yuh  forty  times  I  was  excited.  Yuh  make 
me  sick!  What  difference  does  one  man  make?" 

"It  makes  a  lot  of  difference,"  grumbled  Racey.  "You 
was  the  one  suspected  him  in  the  first  place,  an'  when 
they's  a  good  chance  to  get  him  you  gotta  spoil  it.  Y' 
oughta  been  more  careful.  Hell's  bells,  they's  two  thou 
sand  apiece  on  them  gents!  You  must  think  money  grows 
out  of  the  ground  like  grass." 

"There  yuh  go  again,  talkin'  about  money!  Ain't 
yuh  never  satisfied?  Lookit  all  the  money  I  earned  for 

310 


GREEN  AND  GOLD  311 

you  an*  Telescope.  You  don't  hear  me  bawlin'  my  head 
off  'cause  I  gotta  divide  with  you  two,  do  yuh?" 

"Huh? — Say,  look The  money  you  earned  for  Tele 
scope  an'  me!  Which  I  shore  admire  yore  nerve!  The 
money  you  earned!  I  guess  now  Telescope  didn't  do  no 
ridin*  round  an'  trailin'  an'  all,  huh  ?  No,  I  guess  he  didn't! 
An'  me,  I  didn't  wrastle  a  lot  o'  mules  an'  hosses  that  tried 
to  bite  me  in  the  pants  an'  pat  my  face  with  their  hind  feet 
every  chance  they  got,  did  I,  just  so's  I  could  find  out 
things  for  yuh ! 

"Oh,  no,  I  didn't.  Not  a-tall.  An*  you  got  the  gall 
to  say  the  money  you  earned  for  us.  You  wait  till  I  tell 
Telescope.  You  wait.  You  two  gimme  the  Dutch  rub 
one  time  for  not  talkin'  half  so  loud.  You  see  what  hap 
pens  to  you.  You  see.  The  money  you  earned — well, 
by  Gawd,  Johnny,  the  dictionary  ain't  got  the  words  to 
describe  what  I  think  o'  yuh." 

"An*  that's  lucky  for  you,  yuh  flathead,"  Johnny  de 
clared  tranquilly,  "  'cause  you  might  say  somethin'  I 
didn't  like,  an'  then  what  them  jacks  done  to  you  won't 
be  a  marker  on  what  I'd  do  to  yuh." 

"Oh,  is  that  so?"  cried  the  provoked  Racey.  "Now — 
ow — wow!  That's  a  new  shirt!" 

"I'm  a-goin'  away,"  Johnny  told  him,  hurriedly  with 
drawing  into  the  darkness.  "'  'Cause  if  I  stayed  first 
thing  yuh  know  you  an'  me  would  be  quarrelin' — What 
yuh  squallin'  about?  I  didn't  tear  yore  shirt — much." 

Johnny  dodged  a  hurled  rock  and  fled. 

He  had  fooled  with  Racey,  but  he  did  not  feel  in  a  fooling 
mood.  Life  since  his  last  conversation  with  Dorothy  was 
a  serious  affair.  Soberly  he  went  up  to  his  room  in  the 
hotel,  lit  the  lamp,  turned  it  low  and  sat  down  on  the  cot. 
For  the  twentieth  time  he  took  from  his  pocket  the  small, 


312  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

square  package  with  the  obliterated  address,  that  he  had 
picked  up  at  the  scene  of  the  Diamond  hold-up.  For  the 
fifteenth  time  he  opened  the  package  and  dribbled  into  his 
open  palm  some  of  the  coarse  dust  therein. 

In  order  to  see  better  he  turned  up  the  lamp,  and  his 
elbow,  brushing  the  top  of  the  table,  knocked  to  the  floor 
the  heavy  outer  wrapping  of  the  package.  Stooping,  and 
retrieving  the  brown  manila  paper,  he  held  it  for  a  chance 
instant  between  him  and  the  light. 

His  eyes  widened.  The  chance  instant  became  a  long 
two  minutes  during  which  he  continued  to  hold  the  paper 
between  him  and  the  lamp. 

"Of  course  I  knowed  it,"  he  told  himself  as  he  put  the 
paper  down,  "but  I  wasn't  shore,  an'  anyway  what  good 
does  it  do?  If  I  only  knowed  where  you  come  from/1 
he  added  wistfully,  eyeing  the  dust  in  the  hollow  of  his 
palm. 

Idly  and  absent-mindedly  he  began  to  pour  from  one 
hand  to  the  other  that  tiny  heap  of  coarse  dust.  In  the 
bright  flame  of  the  lamp  the  gold  shone  dully.  Here  and 
there  in  it  minute  particles  were  tinged  a  lambent  green. 
Johnny  had  not  previously  remarked  this  greenish  colour. 

Quickly  he  poured  back  the  dust  into  the  package,  wrap 
ped  it,  tied  it,  and  put  it  in  his  pocket. 

"She's  a  chance,"  he  said,  "but  maybe  he  can  tell. 
Funny  I  never  thought  o'  that  before." 

He  blew  out  the  lamp,  and  clattered  down  the  stairs 
to  the  bar-room  and  the  street. 

An  hour  later  Johnny  issued  from  the  doorway  of  a  house 
not  far  from  Soapy  Ragsdale's  store.  In  front  of  the  store 
he  paused,  built  himself  a  cigarette,  and  looked  down  the 
street  where  glowed  the  lighted  windows  of  the  Broken 
Dollar. 


GREEN  AND  GOLD  313 

"No  sense  in  waitin',"  he  said  to  himself,  and  strode 
briskly  down  the  street. 

Mrs.  Wallace  was  not  in  her  accustomed  place  behind 
the  roulette  table  when  Johnny  looked  through  the  nearest 
of  the  open  windows.  One  of  the  faro  dealers  was  spining 
the  wheel,  and  Slay,  cold,  immobile,  a  dead  cigar  up  thrust 
beneath  his  pointed  nose,  was  watching  the  plays. 

Johnny  went  down  to  the  end  of  Main  Street  where  his 
view  of  the  Slay  residence  on  the  river  bank  was  not 
blocked  by  the  houses  of  the  town.  There  was  a  light  be 
hind  the  drawn  shades  of  the  sitting-room.  Johnny 
walked  across  the  street  and  turned  into  the  path  that  led 
to  the  house. 

He  stepped  up  on  the  porch  and  knocked  on  the  door. 
Almost  instantly  it  opened,  and  Mrs.  Wallace  stood  be 
fore  him.  She  was  in  evening  dress.  Her  smooth  shoul 
ders  gleamed  satiny  in  the  light  of  the  lamp  on  the  table 
behind  her.  She  smiled  her  quick  bright  smile  when  she 
saw  the  visitor  was  Johnny. 

"Come  in,"  she  said,  and,  when  he  had  entered,  closed 
the  door  and  indicated  an  armchair  near  the  window. 

"Take  that  chair,"  said  she.  "It's  the  same  comfort 
able  one  you  sat  in  before." 

Johnny  sat,  and  found  himself  back  to  the  door  and  fac 
ing  the  light.  The  lady  sat  down  sidewise  on  the  couch. 
Table  and  lamp  were  at  her  left. 

"You've  been  very  remiss,"  chided  Mrs.  Wallace. 
"You  promised  to  come  to  see  me  the  first  time  you 
were  in  town,  and  this  is  the  second  time  you've  been 
in." 

"I  did  come  here  the  first  time  I  was  in  town,  but  you 
was  out  some'ers.  I  couldn't  wait.  I  had  business.  But 
I'm  here  now,  an'  you  can  tell  me  what  kind  of  trouble 


314  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

yo're  in  an*  what  yuh  want  me  to  do — that  is,  if  yuh  still 
want  me  to  help  yuh?" 

"Why,  of  course  I  do — Bless  that  lamp!  It  shines  right 
in  my  eyes." 

She  rose  swiftly,  moved  the  lamp  from  the  centre  of 
the  table  to  the  end  opposite  Johnny,  and  went  to  one  of 
the  windows  and  raised  the  lowered  shade  halfway  to  the 
top. 

"Pretty  hot,"  said  she.  "We'll  raise  the  shade  a  trifle 
even  if  it  does  let  in  the  insects.  I  wish  I  dared  to  raise 
them  all" 

She  sat  down  again  with  a  pleasant  rustle  of  silk  and 
clasped  her  hands  round  one  of  her  knees.  Her  profile  was 
as  much  in  the  light  as  ever. 

"Before  yuh  tell  me  anything"  said  Johnny,  "I  wanna 
tell  you  somethin'.  They's  five  men  hangin'  down  in  them 
cottonwoods." 

He  paused,  and  her  face  paled  the  least  bit. 

"Yes,"  she  murmured.     "I — I  saw  them." 

"What  yuh  didn't  see  was  how  Chance  Blaisdell  was 
gonna  snitch  an'  Jack  Murgatroyd  kicked  the  hoss  Chance 
was  on,  an'  the  hoss  started  an'  swung  Chance  off.  I  had 
hold  of  Jack  at  the  time,  an'  I  could  'a'  stopped  him,  but 
I  let  him  go  just  long  enough  for  him  to  kick  the  hoss." 

"Why  did  you?" 

"Why  do  yuh  s'pose?  Who  was  Chance  gonna  snitch 
on?" 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  know." 

"Yes  yuh  do  too.  He  was  gonna  squeal  on  yore  brother, 
an'  you  know  it." 

"My  brother!     Why- 

"Whatsa  use  playin'  innocent?  I've  been  shore  from 
the  day  Harry  Slay  brought  me  in  to  the  Bend  an'  tried 


GREEN  AND  GOLD  315 

to  have  me  hung  that  he  was  the  head  o'  this  road  agent 
outfit.  Findin'  Bill  Homan's  watch  near  the  wagon  slue 
quicksand  made  it  a  cinch  the  gang's  headquarters  was 
here  in  the  Bend.  Yeah,  Bill  Homan's  watch,  I  said. 
Harry  sort  o'  overthrowed  for  once — or  was  it  you? 
Makes  yuh  wink,  don't  it?  Now  listen  here,  I  lost  one 
good  opportunity  to  dump  Harry  by  lettin'  Jack  start 
Chance's  hoss  'cause  I  wanted  you  to  get  clean  away  be 
fore  the  dam  broke.  If  it  hadn't  been  for  you  here  Blais- 
dell  could  'a'  talked  his  head  off  an'  welcome.  I  gave  you 
a  chance  at  Piegan  City.  You  could  'a'  drifted  yoreself 
then,  an'  you  could  'a'  taken  yore  brother  with  yuh.  But 
yuh  couldn't  see  it  that  way.  Yuh  had  to  come  back — 
with  him. 

"I'm  givin'  yuh  one  more  chance.  Go  now.  If  yuh 
don't  yo're  a  heap  liable  to  be  squeezed  between  the  cow 
an'  the  corral  when  Harry  gets  dumped.  He's  gonna  get 
dumped.  Don't  think  he  ain't.  I'll  see  to  that.  Re 
member  what  I  told  yuh  about  them  Injun  rustlers  an* 
the  one  hoss  too  many?  This  paymaster  hold-up  is  that 
one  hoss.  Now  you  do  what  I  tell  yuh — hit  the  trail  an' 
hit  it  quick.  I  expect  yuh'll  tell  Harry  what  I  said. 

"Maybe  it'll  save  a  lot  of  trouble  all  round  if  yuh  do. 
Maybe  he'll  want  the  other  way.  Shootin'  it  out  always 
does  make  a  deal  simpler.  Suit  yoreself.  Anyway  you've 
got  the  warnin'.  Honest,  I  don't  wanna  see  anythin* 
happen  to  you.  Can't  yuh  see  I  don't  when  tellin'  you 
means  yore  brother  will  have  his  chance,  too?" 

"You've  talked  a  lot,  but  you've  said  hardly  anything. 
You  suspect — what  does  suspicion  amount  to?  You  can 
prove  absolutely  nothing." 

The  words  were  sufficiently  brave  and  her  eyes  were 
steady  as  she  vainly  endeavoured  to  stare  him  down.  But 


3i6  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

her  face  was  absolutely  colourless.  The  little  pulse  in 
her  throat  was  throbbing  frantically. 

"I  was  hopin'  yuh'd  take  my  word  for  it  an*  git,"  he 
told  her.  "Yuh  want  proof.  I  had  to  figure  before  on 
some  jigger  snitchin'  for  that  proof,  but  now  I  got  it  my 
own  self.  Here  she  is." 

From  the  pocket  of  his  chaps  he  produced  a  small  square 
package  wrapped  in  thick  brown  manila  paper.  The  eyes 
of  Mrs.  Wallace  dilated.  She  uttered  a  faint  gasp.  Johnny 
held  up  the  package. 

"I  picked  this  up  under  the  express-car  in  the  cut  near 
Diamond,"  said  he.  "The  address  was  all  smooched  up 
with  dirt  so's  yuh  couldn't  read  it.  Last  night  I  just  hap 
pened  to  hold  the  outside  wrapper  against  the  lamp-light. 
Yuh  could  read  the  address  quite  plain  then.  I  guess 
when  yuh  addressed  them  eight  li'l  packages  to  yoreself 
care  o'  the  Sailors'  National  in  San  Francisco,  yuh  never 
expected  they'd  go  out  on  the  same  train  that  carried  the 
paymaster,  now  did  yuh?" 

"My  brother  will  certainly  kill  you,  Mister  Ramsay. 
Never  doubt  it.  That  package  you  hold  in  your  hand  is 
mine  and  it  is  one  of  the  eight.  How  does  it  or  its  contents 
prove  anything?  I  suppose  I'm  stupid,  but " 

"No,  you  ain't  stupid.  That's  the  last  thing  you  ever 
will  be.  Yo're  clever  as  forty  foxes,  but  why  yuh  ain't 
more  mad  is  what  I  can't  see.  You'd  oughta  be  hollerin' 
an'  denyin*  everythin'." 

"A  scene  is  low — and  ineffective.  As  I  said,  my  brother 
will  kill  you.  I'd  like  to,  myself.  About  that  proof " 

"Shore.  In  this  package,  as  yuh  know  better  than  I  do, 
they's  gold  dust.  They's  tiny  speckles  of  green  in  this 
dust.  I  took  this  dust  about  two  hours  ago  to  Aronson. 
You  know  Aronson.  He's  one  good  assayer,  an'  what  he 


GREEN  AND  GOLD  317 

dunno  about  mines — well.  Aronson  says  that  this  dust 
comes  from  Old  Man  Fane's  mine.  Which  that  mine  is 
the  only  one  within  five  hundred  miles  that  has  traces  of 
copper  in  the  dust.  Do  yuh  still  say  this  package  is  yores  ?" 

Mrs.  Wallace  ran  the  tip  of  a  pink  tongue  along  the 
edges  of  her  lips. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do?"  she  asked  with  admirable 
calm. 

"Give  you  time  to  slope.  Take  yore  brother  with  yuh 
if  yuh  like.  Whatever  yuh  decide  will  suit  me.  They's 
a  stage  south  to-morrow.  I  keep  my  mouth  shut  about 
this  package  for  three  days.  After  that " 

He  left  the  sentence  unfinished  and  returned  the  little 
square  package  to  his  pocket. 

"Now  yuh  know,"  he  told  her. 

"Now  I  know,"  she  said.  "I  know  a  great  deal  more 
than  I  did.  I  wonder  if  you  know  something,  too.  I 
wonder  if  you  know  why  I  asked  you  to  come  to  see  me 
the  first  time  you  came  to  town." 

"I  was  waitin'  for  you  to  tell  me." 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

THE  CLAWS  OF  THE  LEOPARD 

THERE  was  a  row  of  sofa-cushions   ranged    along 
the  back  of  the  couch.     She  slid  her  hand  under 
the  nearest,  withdrew  it  quickly — and  in  somewhat 
less  than  the  blink  of  an  eye,  a  sawed-off,  double-barreled 
eight-gauge  Greener  lay  across  her  knees,  the  twin  muzzles 
trained  on  Johnny's  abdomen.     Furthermore,  both  ham 
mers  were  cocked  and  two  white  fingers  hung  on  the  trig 
gers. 

"Now  I  know  why  yuh  didn't  get  mad,"  observed 
Johnny,  looking  death  in  the  eye,  so  to  speak.  "With 
four  aces  like  that  in  yore  hand  yuh  could  afford  not  to. 
Tell  yuh  what,  if  that  shotgun's  loaded,  an'  you  keep  on 
a-fiddlin'  with  them  triggers  they's  gonna  be  one  awful 
mess  in  this  armchair." 

He  grinned  at  her,  but  he  was  careful  not  to  move  his 
hands  from  where  they  rested  on  the  arms  of  the  chair. 

"You  should  have  had  better  sense  than  to  come  spying 
on  us,"  said  she. 

"Yore  sawed-off  shore  says  so." 

"Why  couldn't  you  mind  your  own  business?  Why 
did  you  have  to  come  up  here?" 

"Somebody  had  to." 

"You  didn't  have  to  be  the  somebody." 

"Maybe  not,  but  what  yuh  worryin'  about?  I  won't 
be  somebody  after  you've  pulled  them  triggers.*' 

318 


THE  CLAWS  OF  THE  LEOPARD         319 

She  contemplated  him,  her  expression  a  mixture  of 
speculation  and  regret. 

"  I  wish  there  were  some  means  of  arranging  this  thing," 
she  said.  "I  rather  like  you.  You've  amused  .me — in  a 
way." 

"  In  a  way." 

Johnny  laughed  quite  heartily.  And  he  had  thought  she 
was  in  love  with  him.  Had  he  been  a  Frenchman  he 
would  have  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"But,  of  course,"  she  went  on,  "we  have  to  make  sure." 

"They's  only  one  way  to  make  shore." 

"I  know.  I'm  sorry.  It  was  very  decent  of  you  to 
warn  me  and  give  me  my  chance.  I  do  appreciate  it. 
Unfortunately  I  cannot  show  my  appreciation." 

By  her  manner  she  might  have  been  declining  a  cup  of 
tea. 

"You  shore  can  make  the  old  dictionary  sit  up,  play 
dead  an'  roll  over,"  he  remarked  admiringly.  "  But  ain't 
that  Wells-Fargo  cannon  yo're  a-dandlin*  across  yore  knees 
kind  o'  heavy?  Why  don't  yuh  use  a  derringer?" 

What  a  foolish  question  to  ask  with  death  a  breath  away. 
He  wondered  what  death  would  be  like.  Once,  long  ago, 
he  had  seen  an  Indian  killed  by  a  shotgun  fired  at  close 
range.  The  charge  had  blown  out  half  the  redskin's 
ribs.  Somehow,  it  seemed  to  Johnny  that  he  was  not 
actually  a  participant  in  the  grim  situation  staged  by  Mrs. 
Wallace. 

This  person  in  the  armchair  simply  could  not  be  Johnny 
Ramsay.  The  scene  was  too  unreal.  It  was  like  a  dream, 
a  peculiarly  disagreeable  nightmare.  He  would  wake 
up  in  a  moment  and  find  himself  crosswise  on  his  bed, 
fighting  the  pillow,  with  Laguerre  desiring  profanely  to 
know  why  he  couldn't  let  other  folks  sleep. 


320  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

He  repeated  his  question  regarding  the  derringer.  1 

"Better  not  talk,"  she  advised. 

At  which  Johnny  was  provoked  to  irritation. 

"You've  shore  got  a  nerve!"  he  cried.  "Can't  yuh  let 
a  man  talk?  Why  don't  yuh  pull  the  trigger?  What 
yuh  waitin'for?" 

"I'm  waiting  for  Harry.  When  he  comes  home  he'll — 
do  what's  necessary.  I'm  just  keeping  you  here  till  he 
comes.  He  should  be  here  almost  any  time." 

"Oh,  he  should,  huh?  I  was  wonderin'  why  yuh 
moved  the  lamp  an'  raised  the  shade.  If  Harry  walks 
down  to  the  end  of  Main  Street  he  can  see  the  signal  plain 
as  yuh  please.  That's  shore  one  nice  trick  to  work  on  a 
orphan  child  like  me." 

She  made  no  reply. 

"You'll  both  be  lynched,"  declared  Johnny. 

"Oh,  no,  that's  all  fixed.  Harry'll  simply  say  he  came 
home  and  found  me  struggling  in  your  arms,  and  I'll  swear 
to  it." 

"'Strugglin'  in  yore  arms'  sounds  like  a  book.  I  read 
that  some'ers.  Maybe  they  won't  believe  yuh." 

"Yes,  they  will.  I'll  tear  my  dress  and  scratch  my  arms 
so  everything  will  look  natural.  We'll  be  believed.  Don't 
worry." 

"I  ain't — much.  It  don't  seem  necessary  somehow. 
Yuh  think  of  everything  don't  yuh  ?  Wiser'n  forty  owls, 
yuh  bet  yuh.  An'  I  let  you  come  honeyfugglin'  round 
me  an'  pile  on  the  sawder  a  foot  thick!  But  yuh  didn't 
find  out  much  till  I  chose  to  let  yuh,  did  yuh?" 

"I  didn't  find  out  a  thing  till  I  caught  you  in  Damson 
watching  Harper  and — and  the  others,  when  you  should 
have  been  hunting  the  Flying  M  strays.  Then  I  knew 
what  you  had  come  to  the  Bend  for,  But  Harry  suspected 


THE  CLAWS  OF  THE  LEOPARD          321 

you  from  the  very  first.  He'd  have  finished  you  before 
this,  but  I  couldn't  let  him  till  I  was  sure." 

No  saleswoman  selling  notions  could  have  been  more 
painfully  matter-of-fact  than  Mrs.  Wallace  as  she  talked 
so  fluently  of  eliminating  a  human  being.  The  pungent 
humour  of  it  suddenly  struck  johnny  full  force.  He 
laughed  till  the  tears  came. 

"Scotty  was  right,"  he  said,  when  he  could  speak. 
"He  told  me  yuh  was  prettier  than  a  li'l  red  wagon,  but 
always  yuh  reminded  him  of  a  leopard.  I  never  under 
stood  what  he  meant.  It's  shore  a  stand-ofFwho  gets  the 
credit  though — you  or  the  leopard." 

She  began  to  tap  the  floor  with  an  impatient  toe. 

"What's  the  hurry?"  he  jibed.  "Don't  grudge  me 
the  last  few  minutes,  do  yuh? — Well,  I  seen  yore  click- 
clackin'  away  an'  I  though  yuh  was  gettin'  nervous.  Say, 
look  here,  Mrs.  Wallace,  djuh  remember  one  evenin'  goin* 
out  back  o'  the  Broken  Dollar,  climbin'  into  a  empty 
freight-wagon,  an'  cryin'.  'My  Gawd,  "what  a  life!'  was 
what  yuh  said  a  couple  o'  times.  I  was  right  close  an' 
heard  yuh.  Now  yuh  wouldn't  a'  bawled  an'  said  that 
if  yuh  enjoyed  stayin'  with  Harry  Slay.  Whatsa  use  of 
stickin'  by  him.  He  don't  treat  yuh  right.  Some  day 
he'll  hit  yuh  again  like  he  did  out  near  the  sidetracks  in 
Piegan  City. 

"Yo're  a-figurin*  on  quittin'  some  day.  I  heard  yuh 
say  yuh  would.  Besides,  if  you  wasn't  figurin'  thataway 
why  did  yuh  take  the  trouble  of  packin'  yore  share  of  the 
stuff*  that  was  stole  clear  to  Piegan  City?  You  done  it 
so's  yore  brother  wouldn't  be  likely  to  find  out  where  yuh 
sent  it.  He'd  'a'  stopped  yuh  if  he  could.  You  know  it. 
Yo're  aimin'  to  have  a  nice  li'l  stake  all  ready  waitin'  in 
the  Sailors'  National  when  you  get  ready  to  pull  yore 


322  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

freight.  An'  you  don't  wanna  divide  it  with  any*one  either. 
Shore.  Ain't  I  right?" 

"If  it  does  you  any  good — you  are." 

"Well,  then,  why  wait?  You  slide  out  now,  an  I'll  help 
yuh  get  away.  Remember  them  Injun  rustlers  an*  the 
last  hoss.  The  cards'll  turn  that  way  for  you.  They 
always  do  if  yuh  play  long  enough.  They  gotta.  Now " 

"Please  stop  talking.  It's  useless.  I  advise  you  to 
think  of  something  else." 

Her  voice  was  cold.  Her  face  was  as  hard  and  expres 
sionless  as  that  of  a  graven  image.  Johnny  watched  her 
intently,  his  muscles  tense  to  take  advantage  of  the 
slightest  waver  in  her  eyes,  of  the  least  deflection  of  the 
Greener's  barrels.  But  there  was  no  waver  and  no 
deflection. 

Johnny's  ears  were  alert  to  catch  the  sound  of  footsteps 
on  the  path  or  on  the  porch,  and  the  squeak  of  an  opening 
door.  Perhaps  Slay  would  elect  to  shoot  him  through 
the  window.  In  that  case.  .  .  . 

Johnny's  eyebrows  drew  together  in  a  scowl.  His  sar 
donic  gray  eyes  turned  sullen.  What  a  failure  he  had 
made  of  the  affair.  True,  he  had  ferreted  out  oddments 
of  evidence  in  one  place  and  another,  but  they  did  not 
piece  together  into  a  harmonious  whole.  There  were  bits 
that  he  had  hoped  to  work  out,  and  now  he  would  never 
work  them  out.  His  own  impending  demise  troubled 
him  less  than  the  thought  that  the  gambler,  his  saddlebags 
and  cantenas  stuffed  with  other  men's  money,  would 
go  on  his  way  rejoicing — and  doubtless  marry  Dorothy 
Burr.  The  hair  on  the  back  of  his  neck  began  to 
rise. 

"Don't  try  to  hitch  your  chair  round!"  The  words 
of  caution  came  sharp  and  clear. 


THE  CLAWS  OF  THE  LEOPARD          323 

The  fingers  poised  on  the  triggers  stiffened. 

"Me!"  exclaimed  Johnny.  "Me  hitch  my  chair 
round!  Yo're  crazy.  My  leg's  asleep,  that's  all." 

"Don't  try  to  wake  it  up." 

Ensued  a  period  of  silence  while  a  man  might  draw  ten 
slow  full-lunged  breaths.  Then,  without  a  preliminary 
sound  from  the  porch,  the  door  gave  a  gentle  creak.  The 
face  of  Mrs.  Wallace  altered  subtly.  For  the  merest  frac 
tion  of  a  second  her  eyes  flickered  toward  the  doorway. 
Johnny  needed  no  further  encouragement.  He  hurled 
himself  out  of  the  chair,  dodged  sidewise,  and  struck  up 
the  barrels  of  the  shotgun. 

BANG-G-G!  The  Greener  roared  like  a  cannon  in  that 
confined  space.  With  the  flash  of  the  gun  Johnny  was 
crouching  down  and  forward,  his  gun  was  out,  and  he  was 
shooting  at  two  hazy  figures  blocking  the  doorway — two 
figures  whose  spitting  six-shooters  blazed  redly  through 
the  swirling  smoke.  There  had  been  a  third  man,  but 
the  shotgun  had  called  him,  and  now  he  sprawled  face 
downward  on  the  floor. 

When  Johnny's  gun  was  empty  so  was  the  doorway. 
Of  the  two  men  formerly  occupying  the  space  one  lay  upon 
the  floor,  kicking  and  jerking,  a  bloody  froth  bubbling 
at  his  lips.  The  other,  gunless,  hatless,  the  breast  of  his 
shirt  heavy  with  a  crimson  sogginess,  leaned  against  the 
wall  and  clutched  his  middle  with  both  hands.  Even 
as  Johnny  looked  the  long  legs  gave  at  the  knees,  the  body 
crumpled  to  the  floor,  jackknifed  as  in  a  cramp,  then 
straightened  and  lay  still.  So  passed  out  Barry  Camp, 
well  and  unfavourably  known  to  Johnny  and  his  friends  as 
the  Red-head. 

In  the  pressing  excitement  of  the  moment  Johnny  had 
forgotten  Mrs.  Wallace.  He  whirled  to  face  her  and  saw 


324  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

her,  a  tumbled  heap  of  silken  draperies  and  soft  white  flesh, 
huddled  across  the  couch.  His  first  thought  was  that  she 
had  stopped  a  bullet.  Searching  eyes  and  fingers  dis 
covered  no  mark  of  one.  She  had  simply  fainted. 

Johnny  reloaded  his  six-shooter,  lowered  the  hammer  on 
an  empty  chamber,  slid  the  weapon  into  its  holster  and 
crossed  to  the  other  side  of  the  room.  The  citizen  who 
had  taken  his  death-wound  so  hardly,  the  first  to  fall  of 
the  two  with  whom  Johnny  had  joined  issue,  lay  twisted 
and  motionless,  his  head  on  the  doorsill.  Johnny  looked 
at  the  face  with  its  slack-jawed,  bloody  mouth  and  glazing 
eyes.  He  did  not  know  the  man. 

His  gaze  passed  over  the  body  of  Barry  Camp  and  rested 
on  that  of  the  man  who  had  received  the  Greener's  double 
charge.  Johnny  heaved  the  corpse  over  on  its  back  and 
stared  into  the  stiff  countenance  of  Harry  Slay.  Appar 
ently  not  a  buckshot  had  missed  the  gambler.  The  right 
side  of  the  throat  was  torn,  shredded  and  pulped.  The 
right  arm,  ripped  off  at  the  shoulder,  lay  three  yards  away, 
the  fingers  clenched  on  the  butt  of  a  discharged  derringer. 
There  was  a  welter  of  blood  about.  It  was  seeping  into 
the  cracks  between  the  floor-boards. 

Johnny  went  out  on  the  porch,  propped  himself  on  a 
chairback  and  was  frankly  sick  at  his  stomach.  The 
paroxysm  past,  he  went  in  to  Mrs.  Wallace.  She  had  not 
yet  come  to.  Johnny  sat  down  to  wait. 

While  he  waited  he  became  aware  of  a  faint  sound,  a 
sound  that  brought  back  with  a  rush  the  days  of  his  boy 
hood — when  he  had  lived  in  a  house  with  a  cellar.  But 
this  house  had  no  cellar.  There  was  not  a  cellar  in  Sunset 
County,  or  Fort  Creek  either,  for  that  matter.  Yet  the 
sound  continued,  the  sound  of  water  leaking  down  into 
a  cellar.  Then,  quite  suddenly,  Johnny  understood.  It 


THE  CLAWS  OF  THE  LEOPARD          325 

was  not  water  that  was  dripping  so  regularly,  nor  was  it  a 
regular  cellar. 

Mrs.  Wallace  stirred,  moaned,  and  put  a  groping  hand 
to  her  head.  Johnny  went  to  her  quickly.  The  dark 
eyes  opened  slowly,  painfully,  and  the  woman  looked  up 
stupidly  into  Johnny's  face.  He  stepped  back.  She 
raised  herself  on  an  elbow.  She  caught  sight  of  what  lay 
beyond  the  table. 

"Dead?"  she  whispered  in  a  dry  voice.     "Dead?"    • 

Johnny  nodded.  He  wondered  that  she  should  sud 
denly  look  so  old.  Her  eyes  wide,  staring  at  the  silent 
dead,  she  dragged  herself  to  a  sitting  position.  She 
swayed  uncertainly  to  her  feet  and  stumbled  round  the 
table.  Clinging  for  support  to  the  edge  of  the  door,  she 
looked  down  at  the  body  of  the  red-head  lying  at  her  feet. 
Then  slowly  she  sank  to  her  knees  and  with  an  utterly 
inadequate  handkerchief  strove  to  wipe  the  dust  and  dirt 
from  the  still  face. 

Johnny  stooped  beside  her  and  very  gently  took  hold 
of  her  arm. 

"This — this  ain't  yore  brother,"  he  told  her.  "He's 
yonder.  You  come  along  with  me  now  till  we  can  fix 
things  up  so  they're  fit  to  look  at.  Come  along,  Mis' 
Wallace.  This  ain't  yore  brother,"  he  repeated,  as  she 
made  no  movement  to  obey. 

She  raised  a  gray  face. 

"I  know  he  isn't  my  brother,"  she  said.  "He's  my 
husband — my  Dave.  Oh,  Dave!  Dave!" 

As  if  the  name  had  been  the  lever  to  the  floodgate  of 
pent  emotion  she  burst  into  a  storm  of  wild  sobbing. 

Her  husband!  Johnny  retreated  to  the  far  side  of  the 
room  and  rubbed  an  amazed  forehead.  The  evening 
had  been  sufficiently  crammed  with  surprises,  but  this 


326  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

rather  capped  the  climax.  But  Johnny's  was  a  snap  and 
faulty  judgment.  The  climax  was  not  yet. 

In  the  red-head's  belt  a  long  bowie  lay  snug  in  its  sheath. 
Mrs.  Wallace  raised  a  tear-stained  face.  A  lock  of  hair 
twisted  down  across  her  forehead.  She  put  up  a  hand  and 
pushed  the  lock  back  into  place.  Her  eyes  were  fixed  and 
staring.  Her  right  hand,  groping  along  the  red-head's 
belt,  rested  an  instant  on  the  hilt  of  the  bowie.  Then 
she  jerked  out  the  long  knife  and  jammed  the  point  against 
her  body  under  the  left  breast. 

Johnny  could  move  swiftly  on  occasion.  And  now  he 
moved  very  swiftly.  But  he  was  not  swift  enough.  Her 
two  hands  steadying  hilt  and  blade,  Mrs.  Wallace  fell 
forward  on  the  steel. 

When  Johnny  picked  her  up  and  laid  her  on  the  sofa 
she  was  dead. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 
THE  END  THEREOF 

TALK  about  luck!"  cried  Soapy  Ragsdale  for  the 
tenth  time.  "If  them  fellers  hadn't  bled  like  stuck 
pigs  an*  run  down  into  that  cache  of  a  cellar  nobody 
would  ever  thought  of  lookin'  under  the  floor.  You'd 
oughta  been  there,  Jim.  All  the  paymaster's  money, 
nearly  all  of  Old  Man  Fane's  dust  an'  the  money  stole  from 
Cutter,  besides  a  raft  of  gold  slugs  an'  dust  rustled  Gawd 
knows  where.  My  eyes  stuck  out  a  foot  when  me  an 
Johnny  pried  up  them  boards  an'  seen  it  all.  Bet  yuh 
they's  two  hundred  thousand  there  when  Aronson  gets 
through  weighin'  her  all." 

"Shouldn't  be  surprised,"  Mace  nodded.  "That  outfit 
shore  didn't  do  a  thing  while  they  lasted." 

"The  Greener  shore  didn't  do  a  thing  to  Slay,"  contri 
buted  Mr.  Cooley,  stroking  his  whiskers. 

"When  yuh  come  to  think  of  it,  Johnny's  atomizer 
sort  o'  put  a  crimp  in  them  other  two  boys,"  said  Scotty 
Mackenzie.  "Gents,  they  was  three  holes  in  the  red 
head — two  in  his  stummick,  an'  one  just  over  his  heart, 
an7  the  other  feller  had  one  hole  in  his  lung  an'  another 
right  through  his  face  the  longest  way.  Pretty  shootin' 
lemme  tell  yuh,  pretty  shootin'." 

"Wonder  who  that  other  feller  was,"  puzzled  Racey 
Dawson. 

"He's  one  o'  them  two  besides  the  red-head  we  didn't 

327 


328  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

account  for  at  the  trial,"  said  Mr.  Ragsdale.  "Now  they's 
only  one  missin'.  Only  one  li'l  outlaw  runnin'  round 
loose  an*  promiscuous." 

"We'd  oughta  got  him  too,"  mourned  Mr.  Cooley. 

"Yuh  can't  expect  everythin' — not  in  this  world," 
emphasized  Mr.  Mace.  "What  gets  me  is  why  Mis' 
Wallace  killed  herself.  She  didn't  have  no  call  to  do 
it." 

"Guess  findin'  out  what  her  brother  was  sort  of  throwed 
her.  He  was  shore  slick  to  keep  it  from  her — if  he  did 
keep  it  from  her."  Scotty  Mackenzie  cocked  a  shrewd 
eye  at  his  friends. 

"Shore  he  did,"  defended  Jim  Mace  warmly.  "She 
didn't  have  no  hand  in  the  business.  Johnny  said  so,  an* 
we  all  know " 

"Aw,  have  it  yore  own  way,"  interrupted  Scotty.  "I'll 
own  up  I  never  thought  Slay  was  in  the  gang,  but  leopards 
is  a  harp  with  another  tune  entirely.  Yessir,  now  I  know 
the  inside  of  the  deal  the  more  I'm  shore  I  don't  like 
leopards  none." 

"What's  leopards  gotta  do  with  it?"  asked  Carey. 

"A  lot,"  grinned  Scotty,  "only  yuh  wouldn't  understand 
if  I  told  yuh.  Where's  Johnny  ? " 

"Down  by  the  Dogsoldier — skippin*  stones  when  he 
ain't  bawlin'  out  his  friends,"  grumbled  Racey  Dawson, 
who,  by  his  manner,  knew  painfully  whereof  he  spoke. 

"Whatsa  matter  with  him?"  asked  Scotty.  "Ain't 
he  pleased?" 

"Pleased,  nothin'!  An'  I  dunno  what's  the  matter 
with  him.  I  located  him  down  there  behind  the  tamaracks 
by  the  big  rock,  an'  he's  squattin'  on  his  heels  skippin* 
li'l  flat  stones  across  the  river.  'A  good  night's  work, 
Johnny/  says  I,  an'  he  grunts  at  me  like  a  pig.  So  I  seen 


THE  END  THEREOF  329 

he  needs  cheerin'  up,  an'  I  cracked  him  on  the  back  an' 
told  him  how  Telescope  an*  me's  been  figurin'  up  an*  his 
share  o'  the  reward  is  near  five  thousand  five  hundred 
dollars.  'It  ain't  worth  it,'  says  he,  kind  of  dreary  like. 
'Djuh  want  it  all?'  I  screeched  at  him,  an'  he  cusses  an' 
I  cusses,  an'  after  I'd  clumb  out  o'  the  water  I  come  away 
an'  left  him.  Which  Johnny's  too  playful  to-day  to  suit 
yores  truly." 

"I  was  wonderin'  how  yuh  got  wet,"  chuckled  Ragsdale, 
winking  at  the  others. 

"  'S  funny  how  Johnny  come  to  use  the  Greener," 
Racey,  with  a  very  red  face,  said  abruptly.  "Yuh  would 
n't  think  he'd  have  time  to  handle  both  a  shotgun  an'  a 
six-shooter  against  them  three  fellers." 

"He  says  himself  everythin'  happened  so  quick  an'  sud 
den  he  don't  really  know  how  he  done  it,"  explained  Mr. 
Cooley.  "It's  likely  to  be  that  way  sometimes.  A 
gent'll  do  things  an'  he  dunno  how  he  does  'em.  Curious, 
that  is,  ain't  it?" 

On  the  top  of  a  wooded  knoll  north  of  Paradise  Bend  a 
man  sat  nursing  his  knees  and  a  worry. 

"Dave  an'  Lefty  shore  oughta  be  back  before  this," 
he  told  himself,  and  got  up  and  began  to  walk  back  and 
forth.  "My  Gawd  yes.  Twelve  hours  they  been  gone 
on  a  two-hour  job." 

He  began  to  swear  and  scuff  his  boot-toes  through  the 
pine-needles.  He  was  a  long-jawed  citizen,  this  man, 
with  light  blue  eyes  and  hair  the  colour  of  old  rope.  His 
cheeks  and  chin  were  covered  with  a  nine-days'  growth 
of  stubble.  He  was  not  at  all  a  prepossessing  person,  and 
his  age  was  a  scant  thirty  years. 

"Fool  trick  lettin'  Slay  keep  the  money  an'  dust,"  he 


330  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

grunted.  "Bet  I'll  never  see  my  share  of  it.  Bet  some- 
thin'  happened." 

Tied  to  the  trunks  of  near-by  pines  were  three  horses. 
One  of  these  horses  was  the  red-head's  blue. 

" !"  suddenly  exclaimed  the  long-jawed  man.  "I 

ain't  a-goin'  to  take  root  here,  that's  a  cinch." 

He  zigzagged  down  the  slope  of  the  knoll  and  began  to 
walk  through  the  woods  in  the  direction  of  Paradise  Bend. 
From  a  side-pocket  of  his  coat  he  took  a  pair  of  field-glasses 
and  began  to  wipe  them  with  a  none-too-clean  handker 
chief. 

Within  the  hour  he  returned  more  speedily  than  he  went. 

"Four  new-laid  graves/'  he  kept  repeating  between  his 
teeth.  "Four  new-laid  graves.  An'  they  was  a  crowd 
on  the  front  porch  an'  a  feller  with  scales,  an'  he  was 

a-weighin'  dust  an'  slugs  to  beat Two  hundred  an* 

fifty  thousand!  Might  'a'  knowed  they'd  look  under  the 
floor." 

Steadily  swearing,  he  went  directly  to  the  three  horses 
and  stripped  the  saddles  and  bridles  from  two  of  them. 

"There  now,"  said  he,  "I  guess  you  won't  be  needed  no 
more.  Let  her  flicker." 

He  slapped  his  quirt  across  the  rump  of  one.  They 
both  fled  with  whisking  tails.  The  man  then  loosed  and 
mounted  the  red-head's  blue. 

"  'S  funny,"  said  he,  as  he  rode  away  into  the  woods, 
"  I  always  wanted  to  swap  cayuse  an'  boot  for  you,  hoss, 
an'  Dave  Yule  just  never  would  trade,  said  he  had  a  hard 
enough  job  swappin'  that  black-tail  dun  with  Sam  for 
yuh.  I  told  Crail  he  was  a  idjit  to  swap.  Yo're  twice 
the  hoss  that  yaller  killdevil  ever  will  be.  'S  funny,  all 
right.  She'll  be  funnier  when  you  an*  me  come  back, 
hoss.  Yessir,  you  an'  me  are  a-goin'  to  make  Paradise 


THE  END  THEREOF  331 

Bend  sit  up  on  her  hind  legs  an*  play  tunes  before  we're 
through.  Nobody  can  get  my  share  away  from  me  an' 
not  pay  for  it,  nawsir,  they  can't.  What's  that  piece 
about  the  mills  o'  Gawd  grind  slowly  but  they  git  there  in 
the  end?  That's  me.  I'm  one  o' them  mills.  I  git  there 
in  the  end." 

But  how  he  got  there  has  nothing  to  do  with  the  story. 

Johnny,  alternating  the  skipping  of  stones  with  the 
smoking  of  many  cigarettes,  ceased  not  to  wallow  in  the 
swamp  of  despair.  He  wanted  Dorothy  Burr,  and  wanted 
her  so  much  that  it  hurt.  He  knew  that  he  might  as  well 
wish  for  the  moon.  Dorothy's  refusal  of  him  had  been 
too  definite.  There  was  no  getting  around  that. 

And  Racey  Dawson,  the  deluded  imbecile,  trying  to 
hearten  him  up  with  the  news  that  almost  fifty-five  hun 
dred  was  due  him.  What  did  he  care  for  fifty-five  hun 
dred?  Damn  the  money!  Damn  Racey!  Damn  every 
body!  He  just  guessed  he'd  go  back  to  the  Cross-in-a-box, 
he  would.  This  travelling  round  wasn't  what  it  was 
cracked  up  to  be,  not  by  a  jugful. 

Johnny  stuck  disgusted  hands  into  his  pockets  and 
walked  morosely  back  to  the  hotel.  He  paid  his  bill  and 
went  into  the  barroom  for  his  saddle  and  bridle.  Neither 
was  there. 

"Must  'a'  left  'em  out  to  the  corral,"  said  Johnny,  and 
went  there. 

But  the  saddle  and  the  bridle  were  not  at  the  corral, 
nor  was  Johnny's  horse  within  the  stockade.  Greatly 
perturbed,  Johnny  returned  to  the  barroom  and  spoke  to 
the  bartender. 

"Why  shore,"  said  the  bartender,  "Buster  Ragsdale 
took  yore  saddle  an'  bridle  about  an  hour  ago.  Said  they 


332  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

was  wanted,  so  I  thought  it  was  all  right  an'  let  him  take 
'em — Huh?  No,  he  didn't  say  nothin'  about  yore  hoss." 

Johnny  hurried  to  the  Chicago  Store.  But  Buster  was 
not  there,  nor  had  his  mother  seen  him  since  breakfast. 
Johnny  went  out  into  the  street  and  made  inquiries.  The 
third  man  he  met  told  him  that  he  had  seen  Buster  Rags- 
dale  putting  Johnny's  horse  into  the  Burr  corral. 

Johnny  worriedly  pushed  back  his  hat  and  whistled. 
His  horse  in  the  Burr  corral,  and  the  previous  night  he  had 
taken  on  his  own  shoulders  the  burden  of  Slay's  death! 
His  quixotic  chivalry  toward  a  dead  woman  was  apt  to 
cost  him  dearly.  He  could  not  get  his  horse  out  and  away 
unobserved.  And  what  would  Dorothy  say?  More  than 
he  would  care  to  hear,  probably.  As  has  been  said,  Johnny 
was  not  conversant  with  the  mental  processes  of  a  woman. 
He  was  still  the  small  boy  fearful  of  the  rod  and  the  lashing 
tongue. 

Hugely  uncomfortable,  heartily  cursing  the  day  he  left 
home,  Johnny  made  his  perspiring  way  to  the  Burr  corral. 

"The  fool  kid!"  muttered  the  exasperated  Johnny. 
"That's  shore  one  fine  trick  to  play  on  me!" 

Stealthily  he  approached  the  corral  from  the  rear  and 
looked  through  the  stockade.  There  was  his  horse,  right 
enough,  touching  noses  with  one  of  the  Burr  mares.  The 
horse  was  not  saddled.  The  bars  of  the  gate  faced  the 
kitchen  door. 

"Oh  well,"  said  Johnny,  or  words  to  that  effect,  and  he 
hitched  up  his  chaps  and  went  to  face  the  worst. 

The  kitchen  door  was  shut.  Johnny,  his  soul  a-squirm 
with  apprehension,  knocked  with  lax  knuckles  on  the 
door.  For  a  breathless  moment  there  was  no  sound 
within.  Perhaps  they  had  all  gone  out.  A  long  breath 
of  relief  parted  Johnny's  lips.  Vain  hope.  The  door 


THE  END  THEREOF  333 

opened,  and  Mrs.  Burr  appeared,  her  angular  face  beam 
ing.  Johnny  Ramsay  did  not  see  the  smile.  He  saw  the 
herald  of  the  executioner  and  quite  plainly  too. 

"Go  right  in,"  invited  Mrs.  Burr,  stepping  over  the 
door-sill.  "I'm  a-goin'  down  street  a  while.  You — you 
go  in." 

She  gave  his  arm  a  pat  and  a  shove.  Johnny  found 
himself  inside  the  kitchen.  The  door  closed  at  his  back. 
There  was  nobody  else  in  the  kitchen.  In  a  corner  lay 
his  saddle,  his  bridle  snaked  across  the  seat.  Johnny  took 
one  quick  step  forward — and  stopped. 

Framed  in  the  doorway  giving  into  the  other  part  of  the 
house  stood  Dorothy  Burr.  Her  hands  were  clasped  be 
hind  her  back.  She  looked  at  him  coolly.  Johnny's 
knees  shook  a  little.  He  was  scared  to  death. 

"I — I  cue-come  for  my  saddle,"  stuttered  Johnny 
Ramsay. 

"Did  you?"  Dorothy  said  composedly. 

She  came  into  the  room  and  stood  in  front  of  him  and 
looked  him  steadily  in  the  eye.  Johnny  gulped.  He  was 
suffering  the  tortures  of  a  lost  soul.  He  strove  to  return 
stare  for  stare.  He  couldn't.  With  a  mental  jerk  he 
became  conscious  that  Dorothy  was  speaking. 

"How  do  you  suppose  your  horse  and  saddle  got  here?" 
she  asked,  patiently  repeating  her  question  a  second  time., 

"I — I  dunno — Buster  brought  'em." 

"I  told  him  to." 

"You  told  him  to!" 

She  nodded,  and  for  the  first  time  since  the  interview 
began  her  eyes  wavered.  But  they  came  bravely  back 
to  meet  his. 

"I — I  wanted  to  see  you  before  you  went  away,  and — 
and  I  wanted  to  make  sure  I  would  see  you." 


334  HIDDEN  TRAILS 

It  was  coming  now.  In  about  ten  seconds  she  would 
begin  telling  him  what  she  thought  of  him. 

"Well,  yo're  seein'  me." 

Behind  her  back  her  hands  twisted  together.  Her 
round  chin  quivered. 

"You  said  something  to  me  once.  I — I  wanted  to  hear 
you  say  it  again." 

But  he  didn't  say  it  again.  Instead  he  took  her  in  his 
arms  and  kissed  her  hard  several  times. 

"Let  me — breathe  just  once — dear,"  she  said  in  a 
muffled  voice. 

"Plenty  o'  time  for  that  later,"  he  told  her,  and  kissed 
her  again. 

At  this  juncture  Mrs.  Burr  peered  in  at  a  convenient 
window. 

"My  fathers!"  she  whispered  ecstatically  and  wiped 
her  misting  eyes.  "Ain't  that  just  too  nice  for  anythin'! 
I  remember  when  Benjamin  used  to  hug  me  thataway. 
Johnny's  a  real  good  boy,"  she  added,  and  sat  down  on 
the  chopping-block  to  wait. 

Inside  the  house  Johnny  and  Dorothy  were  occupying 
one  chair.  It  was  not  a  large  chair,  but  they  managed. 

"I  thought  yuh  liked "  began  Johnny,  and  left  the 

sentence  unfinished. 

The  arm  round  his  neck  tightened. 

"I  did  like  him — in  a  way,"  said  Dorothy  soberly. 
"He  was  good  company  and  all  that,  and  he  was  nice  to 
me,  and  nice  men  are  scarce  in  the  Bend." 

"Yuh  rode  with  him  a  lot."  But  he  pressed  his  lips 
to  her  hair  at  the  end  of  the  sentence. 

"  Before  you  came  I  did  it  to  amuse  myself.  After  you 
came  I  did  it  to  stir  you  up,  and  you  wouldn't  stir  for  the 
longest  time.  Why  didn't  you?" 


THE  END  THEREOF  335 

"I  did.  Yuh  know  I  did,  an*  yuh  turned  me  down — 
cold." 

She  stirred  in  his  arms,  her  cheek  snuggled  against  his 
shoulder. 

"Oh,  that,"  said  she,  tranquilly,  "was  your  fault." 

"My  fault!"     Surprisedly. 

"Certainly,  silly.  I  had  it  all  planned  out  just  how  you 
were  going  to  propose  and  everything.  It  was  to  be  in  the 
moonlight  when  I  had  on  my  best  silk  and  a  big  bow  in  my 
hair  and  you  were  to  get  down  on  your  knees  when  you 
asked  me  to  marry  you.  Instead  of  that  you  came  busting 
into  the  kitchen  when  I  was  getting  supper  and  laid  down 
the  law  in  your  loudest  bellow.  You  didn't  even  ask  me 
whether  I  wanted  to  marry  you  or  not,  you  just  took 
everything  for  granted  and  said  I  had  to.  You  spoiled 
all  my  nice  plan  and  you  made  me  good  and  mad,  and  after 
you'd  gone  I  cried,  and  I  didn't  eat  any  supper,  and  I  cried 
some  more." 

"An'  yuh  wanted  to  marry  me  all  the  time?"  said 
Johnny  in  amazement.  "Even  when  yuh  was  tellin' 
me  to  drift?" 

"Of  course,  you  simple  thing.     Don't  you  see " 

"Never  mind,"  he  interrupted  hastily.  "It  don't 
signify  now,  does  it?" 

"No,"  said  Miss  Burr  comfortably,  "of  course  not." 


THE  END 


THE  COUNTRY  LIFE  PRESS 
GARDEN  CITY,  N.  Y. 


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